


Toulon (part two)

by Annevar44



Series: Arras:  Honest Men [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Dom/sub, Guilt, M/M, Prison, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 41,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annevar44/pseuds/Annevar44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is part two in the series Arras:  Honest Men.  Chapters 33 to 74.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toulon, 1800

_Toulon, 1800_

The sun in the south of France had a foreign, glassy feel, and the strangeness of the landscape made Javert unsettled. He was sweating slightly in his new uniform. The scent of the sea dazzled him. He had begun to smell it long before he debarked the coach; it fired him with a sense of adventure and purpose. His life had finally begun - he was a man, a proper guard, though the cudgel and pistol still swung awkwardly at his waist. No matter. He would grow accustomed to wearing them. He would not disgrace his position; he would make no mistakes. He would make good.

A big hand descended on his shoulder. “You’re the new blood, eh?” 

Javert had reached his full height in the past year and was still surprised, at times, to find himself looking down on other men. But he had to look up at the guard beside him, who topped him by four or five centimeters and had a broad and solid build; a man in his late thirties perhaps, with an ease to the way he held himself. His face, worn by wind and sun, spoke of a life spent out of doors. He flashed a broad smile. “Vovet. Second in command here. Captain Joire asked me to show you around, seeing as you're green as grass and likely don't yet know your pistol-barrel from your asshole. Come. I'm heading to the drydock now -- here is the path.” He clapped Javert on the back. 

Javert fell into step beside him. The path mounted a small hillock dotted with brush, and Vovet pointed out some of the sights as they climbed - the guards' horses were stabled to the left, he said; and the wide field in the distance made for good riding. Javert nodded and tried to commit these facts to memory. Vovet had a gracious manner that complemented his handsome appearance. His buttons shone, and he carried himself with an air of authority. All in all, he was exactly what Javert imagined a guard should be.

They reached the crest of the hill, and Javert drew a sharp breath. The drydock was spread out far below them, at the base of a great curving stone wall of perhaps eighty feet. A massive, mastless ship lay on its side like a beached whale. Hundreds of red-smocked men swarmed around it and over it, carrying beams and buckets. Meanwhile, guards in blue were dotted about, some on the wall, others supervising down below, with their rifles held casually and their bayonets glinting in the sun. 

The path they had taken now opened on a broad crescent of level ground at the top of the wall. There was a crowd of prisoners here as well, some squatting and others shuffling along as guards barked orders. Javert understood that this must be the staging area for the work going on below.

“The coast is new to me," Javert said, looking around. "What type of labor are the men used for, chiefly? Is it always ship repairs?” 

They paused near the top of the wall. A line of fifty or sixty men stood chained to each other at the neck, gnawing at loaves of bread. At the head of the line, two guards leaned beside a pump. Sweat and grime coated the prisoners' faces, making it difficult to tell anything about them except that they seemed spiritless and exhausted. Some were overthin. They scratched and spat; some were quarreling while others stared listlessly at the ground. The supervising guards had pistols drawn as, one by one, each convict took a drink and splashed his face. Then the guards would bark an order, and the prisoner at the front would step away, and every man in line then shuffled a few steps forward so the next could take his turn. 

“We put them to work wherever the need is," Vovet said. "The drydocks, mostly, but also construction in the town.” He walked down the line of men. Suddenly he stopped short in front of a young prisoner, baby-faced, who was twisting his red cap in his hands. “31132! Replace your cap! Did anyone give permission to remove it?” 

Javert was puzzled; half in the men in line had taken off their caps and thrown them in the dirt. The young man jerked, his eyes wide in fright. He jammed his cap back on hastily. Javert saw his hands were shaking. Vovet produced his cudgel, slid the end between the young man’s knees and drew it slowly upward. “Very good, 31132,” he said in a silky voice. “You are learning. A little more time, and I will have you fully trained.”

Something in his tone, and the sliding progress of the thick cudgel moving between the boy's thighs, made Javert’s breath catch in his chest. Under his new uniform, a blush of heat suffused his skin.

But the young man looked ill. His face had a sickly sheen and his eyes were on his mud-caked boots. Javert frowned and looked again at the tall guard. His moment of excitement vanished. As Vovet moved on, Javert shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the boy still standing with his shoulders crumpled, his slight figure trembling. 

A few meters on, Vovet stopped again, this time before a prisoner nearly as tall as he was, but broader in the chest and shoulders. He was bearded and had streaks of slime across his smock. The muscles of his neck stood out like ropes as he gnawed at a miserable lump of hard bread. Unlike the boy, he did not look down at Vovet's approach, but faced the guard with a defiant stare. 

“This one here, you have to watch him,” Vovet snarled. “We use him whenever great strength is needed, but he is stupid. He is also rebellious and must be kept in line.” He raised his stick suddenly, and brought it down hard across the convict’s shoulder, making the man gasp in pain. He looked at Vovet with pure hatred. Then he spat. 

With agility, Vovet stepped behind him and drew his stick across the man’s throat. Holding it between his two hands, he pulled it back, centimeter by centimeter, as if he meant to crush the prisoner's windpipe. The man thrashed helplessly and made choking noises. Javert noticed that unlike all the other convicts, this one's hands were chained together. His face was becoming purple as he struggled, and Javert looked wildly to Vovet. Finally, Vovet released the man. He collapsed into a half-crouch, panting, sweat rolling down face. He had dropped his lump of bread, which now lay muddied at his feet. 

Javert was perplexed. Rebelliousness was a bad trait in a prisoner, but he could not see what had prompted Vovet’s actions. He looked back to the man, who was still breathing hard as he slowly straightened himself. His eyes were dark and fathomless, but Javert saw intelligence there, as well as unsurprised resignation. 

Still standing behind the man, Vovet brought his stick up hard between his legs. The convict grunted once in pain and surprise, then toppled into the mud, writhing. He vomited, leaving a trail of spittle across his chin, and drew his knees up in evident agony. Javert, dumbstruck, looked to Vovet. 

“He is called Valjean. His number is 24601.” Vovet’s lips curled in a sneer. “He puts on airs. He thinks because he is exceptionally strong, that he is something special. The others even look up to him. But he is nothing; a common prisoner only, worth no more than an ox. I am teaching him his place."

The convict rolled onto his knees. He raised his head and looked up at Javert. 

"Come," Vovet said, flashing his smile again. "We've wasted enough time here. Follow me. The steps down to the drydock are this way. That ship down there is two weeks behind schedule. It will mean long days for us, but we'll make the animals get the work done. Beginning tomorrow, Joire means to start them before dawn.”

Javert looked again at the man crouched at his feet. The prisoner was regarding him with a steadfast gaze, and something in his look arrested Javert's attention. Despite his chains and the beating he had just taken, he looked almost noble in his strength and suffering. He did not seem brutish like so many of the other convicts Javert had passed; rather, he looked like an ordinary man - a man of decent character in a harsh place, who was intent on enduring stoically and raising himself up. 

_A man like me._

Vovet looked back over his shoulder impatiently. Javert gave the prisoner a small nod and trotted to catch up. 


	2. Chapter 2

When the day was done, Vovet led the way back to the Toulon compound alongside the chains of stumbling men. “Since we are on watch at the worksite, we also supervise in the mess. The cons get twenty minutes to eat. Then we take them to the sleeping hall and lock them in, each man secured to his plank by an ankle-chain. When that is done we are at liberty, except those on the night-watch: two who patrol the grounds, two in the tower, one who stands watch outside the guards' dormitory and has the job of rousing the rest if there is any trouble, and three more who stand the gate. But not you or me tonight. We'll get the prisoners secured and then I'll take you around to the guards’ lounge and introduce you to Joire and the others.” 

The mess was no more than a huge empty room, rather like a barn, with a long low counter at one end. A dozen grim-faced servers stood behind steaming tureens of something that smelled like rot and resembled sewage. Loaves of bread were handed out and water was supplied from a pump at the far end of the counter. The men were still chained at the neck. One by one they shuffled along, held out their bowls, received their loaf, and so on -- while the guards kept them movng with oaths and blows. The line was prodded towards the far wall. Eventually an order was barked out, and all as one, the convicts squatted in the dirt and tore into their food like animals. 

A bull-necked guard entered the mess and strode over to where the men were hunched over their meals. He grabbed one prisoner by the shoulder; the man gave a sharp cry and upset his bowl, which earned him a vicious kick from the guard. 

Javert, his eyes drawn by the commotion, recognized this prisoner as the trembling, baby-faced young man from the drydock. The guard produced a key and took the young man off the chain, then shoved him against the wall roughly and cuffed his hands behind his back. With the young con stumbling and the guard raining curses on him, the two left the mess hall. Before they exited, Javert got a look at the convict’s white, peaked face.

“Is that man ill?” he asked Vovet. 

“Him? No; he is just a young weakling. I imagine he is wanted for questioning on some matter.” 

When dinner was completed, the men dunked their wood bowls into a barrel set by the door that was filled with grimy water. Then, as the chain shifted forward, each man threw his half-cleaned bowl into a crate by the door. Vovet shrugged. "They would rather eat off their own filth, then take the trouble to clean the bowls well." He motioned Javert forward and they stood with the other guards, prodding the line of convicts toward the sleeping hall. The sun was setting. 

“I will have to leave you for a while,” Vovet said. “The other guards will show you the procedure for getting the men to bed. It turns out there is something I must do.” He glanced towards the south end of the prison complex. Nothing lay there but a barren, unkempt field, crossed by a single weedy path. At the far end loomed the prison wall. At the foot of the wall, nearly hidden by the deepening shadows of twilight, a small stone cottage stood alone. 

Javert asked, “What is that place?” 

“Nothing of interest; merely the former auxiliary supply shed.” Vovet smiled. “One of the riding horses has a broken stirrup. Such equipment is kept in the main storeroom, of course, but I think I may have once seen an old discarded stirrup lying about in that shed over there. Likely not, though. The cottage has not been used in a couple years.” Whistling, he set out along the path.


	3. Chapter 3

As summer turned towards autumn, Javert settled into the routine of the bagne. He was feeling competent and sure of himself. The captain had had nothing bad to say to him at his probationer's review, and the other guards hailed him genially as he went about his work. Most of the convicts had stopped testing him and more or less obeyed his orders; when they didn't, he was quick to straighten them out. The cudgel and pistol at his belt now felt like familiar friends.

He had been at Toulon for some months when a gendarme rode up to the gate to deliver a message: a new chain-gang had made it almost all the way from the eastern city of Cermillon, a three-weeks’ journey, and was now just hours from Toulon's gates. Ninety-five men had set out from Cermillon; ninety-three would be arriving at the prison. Two convicts had died of illness and been buried in paupers’ graves along the way. 

“Let’s hope the animals have been broken in a little by the time they reach us,“ remarked a guard. “At least they will be fresh and able to work. Some of these old nags can hardly rise in the mornings, no matter how many taps they are given.” He whacked his stick into his hand for emphasis. 

The wagons arrived, and the convicts were unloaded. The clanking of chains and the curses of the guards resounded across the yard. Finally the line of dirty, barefoot men was marched and prodded into the field by the main gate. A steady rain fell, and the guards took out their sour moods on the new arrivals. Some of the new men were crying and others were praying. However, the greatest number merely stood with their heads drooping, directing blank stares at the muddy ground. 

“Get them to form a proper line,” Javert told the guard beside him. He was in charge of dispensing uniforms. At his station were four barrels: one each containing red smocks, yellow trousers, white shirts, and caps. Green caps for lifers; red for all the others.

“You there,” Javert said to the first man in line. “Your number?” The man had a slack face; his eyes were as dull as a cow’s. “Give me your number!” Javert snapped. 

“I know my numbers, I can count,” said the man sullenly. “I can count to ten. I ain’t stupid.” 

Javert stared at him for a moment. “All right; never mind that. Let me see your collar.” He jotted down the number stamped on the iron front-plate. “Here: these clothes should fit well enough. Put your foot up on the bench there.” Javert checked the fit of the man's leg iron, sliding his fingers under the rough band that encircled his ankle. It was the proper size: loose enough not to cut into the flesh below, and tight enough that no contortions or lubricant could force it over the man’s foot.

The slack-faced man was taken off the chain by a waiting guard and led away to the next station. The line in front of Javert’s desk inched forward. 

Hours crept by. The rain continued in fits and starts. This type of work did not suit Javert, though he accepted it as part of his duty. He surveyed the remainder of the dreary chain, which snaked around the corner of the guardhouse. The end was not yet in sight. He sighed. 

The next prisoner was a mere boy. He was newly shorn but his hair had evidently been long before that, as a few sandy curls still clung at his ear and on his shoulder. His eyes were red and swollen.

Javert sized him up and assembled another uniform. “Show me your iron." When he did not move, Javert said impatiently, "Put your right foot on this bench.” The youngster's eyes were glazed over. He looked no more than sixteen. “Where are you from, boy?” Javert asked, not unkindly. 

“We have a farm outside Strasbourg,” he mumbled. “My mother, my sister, grand-papa... and my dog. Chanteuse." Tears threatened in the corners of his eyes. "She just had puppies,” he whispered. 

Javert checked the numbers stamped into his collar. “42176,” he said. From the papers in front of him he read aloud, “Pick-pocket, environs de Strasbourg. Two-year sentence.” He looked gravely into the eyes of the miserable youth. “Do what you’re told, don’t make trouble, work hard. You will be returned to your farm soon. It will seem long but you will find it is not so bad, once you get used to it."


	4. Chapter 4

The guard Rivier shouldered through the crowd. “This one,” he told Javert, indicating the boy pickpocket. “I have orders to take this one for interrogation.”

“I have not yet checked the security of his irons,” said Javert. “Give me a minute with him.”

“Orders,” said Rivier brusquely. “He was a lock-picker, and there is concern he may have smuggled in some tools of the trade. He needs to be searched straightaway.” A look of surprise and protest crossed the boy’s face and he seemed about to speak, but Javert caught his eye and shook his head in warning. The boy remained silent. Rivier took the youth off the chain, jerked his arms behind him and cuffed his hands at the small of his back. “March,“ he snapped. “And don’t think of running.” He stroked the barrel of his rifle. 

The work dragged on all day. Finally the last prisoner was outfitted. The rain had stopped. Javert went to find Joire, the captain of the guards. He located him quickly enough, in the guard-room bent over a chessboard. “Sir,” Javert addressed him. “My work is done, except for one prisoner. I have not yet checked the irons on number 42176. He was taken away for interrogation before I finished with him.”

Joire made a move and smiled across the table at his adversary, another senior guard named Mirette. "That knights' defense failed you last time. I thought you had learned your lesson." To Javert he said, “Who took him?” 

“Guardsman Rivier, sir.”

The captain and Mirette exchanged a quick glance which Javert could not decipher. “Then I’m sure he’s in good hands," Joire said. "He can be taken care of tomorrow.”

“But his irons. If they are not a good fit and he should attempt escape--”

“I said it’s all right, Javert. I am sure he won’t go anywhere; not tonight. Tomorrow, you can check his irons and if there is any problem, address it then.”

The next day, Javert was busy all morning breaking up a fight between three inmates. The particulars did not interest him, but he found it curious that they seemed to be having some sort of lovers’ quarrel. During the convicts’ midday break, he searched among all the chains at the drydock but was not able to locate 42176. With some dread he considered the worst possibility - that because of his own dereliction the day before, a prisoner had escaped and now was skulking in the town, waiting to pick the pockets or even slit the throats of the innocent. He spotted the captain patrolling near the wall. He hurried over, his palms sweating and his stomach seeming to drop sickeningly. He might well be dismissed over this. He had lasted only a few months and now he would end in disgrace. “Sir." He nodded to Mirette, who was standing beside Captain Joire.

"Yes - something the matter?"

"That prisoner I spoke of yesterday: 42176. I failed to ensure that his leg-iron was satisfactory. And today - today I cannot find him, sir." He added bravely, "If there is to be a search party, I would like to be part of it. I won't rest until he's recaptured."

“Oh. That. It’s all right, Javert. That one’s been taken care of.”

 _Thank the Eternal Father._ “Where is he, sir? I'll check his irons straightaway.”

“He will not run anywhere.” The two senior guards exchanged another oblique glance. “He is out there,” the captain said, nodding in the direction of the shore. “Crab food.” At Javert’s blank look, the captain explained further. “He died during interrogation. Apparently he had a weak heart.”

Javert gaped. Yesterday the boy had been alive and crying. Now he was dead. He remembered the counsel he had given: _you'll be back home soon._

Captain Joire must have seen something of his thoughts in his face. “Don’t take it amiss. You’ll see a lot of death here. It's often the young ones who don’t bear up under the work anyway.” He shrugged. “You’re so efficient that I forget how green you are. You'll get used to it."


	5. Chapter 5

A month or two after the young pickpocket’s death, another convict became food for crabs. He was the lazybones from the Midi, a man with an irritating cough and a penchant for excuses. Apparently he escaped his irons, picked the lock on the door of the convicts’ sleeping hall, and was stopped only at the last minute while trying to climb the side wall. The guard who shot him, Bibet, gave a full report and was hailed for his sharp eyes and his marksmanship. He had been posted to patrol the grounds that night, and had heard the escapee running across the side yard.

Javert had known the man. He found Bibet's story hard to believe. 

The body had been dragged for temporary storage into a shed by the infirmary, the one generally used for this grim purpose. Javert had been on "dog duty" frequently during his first few months - an unpopular job which devolved on the new man, and entailed getting the stiffening, foul-smelling corpse of any fallen prisoner into a wagon and up the path to the drydock wall, and then painstakingly lowering it, lashed to a wood board, down the rough stairs to sea level. From there, the remains were taken out for an unceremonious burial a short ways out to sea.

Javert lit a lamp and closed the shed door behind him. The air was fetid as always, but today there was only one body inside. Squatting beside it, he peeled back the canvas wrapping. He had been unsure what he was looking for, but he cursed softly when he saw the powder-burns on the man’s temple. The meaning was clear, but so hard to believe that he was tempted to dismiss the evidence of his eyes. He touched the blood-crusted powder, rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it. After that, he was forced to accept that it was real.

He had never liked Bibet-- but what kind of guard would execute a prisoner in the night? And for what reason? He had not thought such dishonorable conduct possible among men of law. Bibet must be dismissed immediately and prosecuted, and anyone who had abetted him be rooted out. Their presence was a stain on all the guards at Toulon; in fact on the nobility of the entire profession. Yet he had seen Captain Joire congratulate Bibet after the shooting. The guard's account of Montmartre's death had been accepted without question. He was not sure the captain would be receptive if he went to him with his suspicions.

He chewed the inside of his cheek and wondered how to resolve the matter. Finally he made up his mind to go outside the prison gates to the highest local authority he knew of. Captain Joire might at first be annoyed at being circumvented, but once the evidence against Bibet was laid out, he would be more glad than anyone to be rid of a bad apple. 

It took him a week to locate the Director of Corrections, who lived on a fashionable street in town and seldom if ever passed through Toulon's gates to inspect the prison he was charged with administering. The Director's servant answered the door and surveyed Javert - who was on his half-day off and therefore out of uniform - with an unpleasant expression. He seemed affronted that a prison guard would seek out his master. The Director was engaged in pressing business, he said, to which Javert nodded and, planting his feet wide and putting his hands behind his back, declared that he would wait. The servant gazed at him for a moment with obvious dismay. He went away and returned a few moments later, saying that the Director would be busy for some time to come. "I understand," said Javert simply, without moving from the spot. The servant looked at him as if he were mad. Again he disappeared. When he returned, muttering under his breath, he ushered Javert in.

The meeting, however, was futile. The Director graciously offered him tea and complimented him extravagantly on the excellent reports he had had of him from Captain Joire. On the subject of the dead prisoner, however, he was blandly evasive. The man had been shot escaping, the guard was a hero, everything was on the up-and-up, and it was no good throwing wild theories about. Only when Javert pressed his point did the Director lose his charming smile and dismiss him curtly, warning him not to return again spouting innuendo and trifling complaints.

Javert walked back down the fashionable street in a foul mood. He had several hours of liberty until the night shift, when he would stand watch in the tower by the front gate. Other guards spent their liberty hours in a number of pursuits, but most of these did not interest Javert. He got along well enough with the others but lacked the easy affability of men like Vovet and the captain, so he did not feel entirely at ease in the guard’s lounge where the others smoked and drank their off-hours away. He had explored the town during his first few off-afternoons, and found it held no draw for him. He liked a glass of wine but not the noise and boastfulness of men in taverns. Gambling struck him as a waste of hard-earned money. Nor was he interested in joining the guards’ forays to the local cathouses - a peculiarity of taste which set him apart and earned him the friendly nickname, “Javert the Bishop”. 

He could shoot as well as any man -- he had practiced at it for long hours during his guard training -- and had taught himself to ride passably well, but saw no sport in these activities. Vovet and a few others were excellent horsemen and sometimes conducted races on the level sand-and-grass turf that encircled the prison, where every tree and shrub large enough to conceal a man had been cleared away. The races were thrilling to watch even for one who was not a betting man -- but that was a Saturday activity, and today was Monday.

In his room he had two books acquired from another guard, one concerning the art of riflery and gun maintenance, and the other a history of the kings of France. Thinking to better himself, he pored over them on nights when he went off duty but was not yet fatigued enough to fall into bed. He thought of them now. However, the salty breeze, the slanting autumn sun, and the tinge of distant gold on the rippling sea all conspired to keep him from his studies. His feet took him toward the drydock.


	6. Chapter 6

He encountered the guard Natellier on the northern end of the dock, standing watch over a group of convicts on break. Valjean was among them, squatting a little ways off from the others. He was trailing his cuffed hands in the dirt. 

Javert by this time was familiar with the customs of prison security. At the worksite, the prisoners were put back on the neck-chain only during long breaks - as, for example, when they were lined up for the midday meal. But because of his great strength, Valjean and Valjean alone was kept chained at the wrists during even short breaks and any time he did not need his hands for work. 

Javert had taken a liking to the man. In spite of his rough looks, Valjean had a natural intelligence that set him apart from most of the others, who struck Javert as little more than beasts. Javert knew Valjean’s eyes often followed him. He was pleased that Valjean treated him with respect rather than the consistent insolence he gave Vovet -- who in return seemed to be conducting a private, intensely personal war against Valjean and went out of his way to torment the man regularly. 

Sometimes when their eyes chanced to meet, Javert saw something more than respect in Valjean’s gaze: a searching look, as if the convict believed that Javert might have the answer to a question that burned within him. Javert did not know what to make of this. But there were times at night when he thought of Valjean and wondered what sort of man he had been, and why he had become a thief. 

At this moment, Valjean was staring intently at the dirt in front of him, in which he was making marks of some kind. This struck Javert as unusual, and his guard’s instincts made him draw closer. It would not do to have prisoners sending coded signals to each other. His shadow fell across the squatting man. Valjean glanced up and quickly spread his hands the best he could, to hide his work.

“What are you doing there?” Javert said brusquely. “Move your hands.”

Reluctantly, the prisoner obeyed. Javert bent to take a closer look. In the sand he saw ill-formed letters: 

P Q R S.

“What is the meaning of this?” Javert demanded. He was out of uniform but his pistol was at his side as always. He put his hand to it instinctively.

For a moment Valjean did not answer. Finally, he muttered toward the sand. “I am practicing, sir.” He looked embarrassed. 

“Explain it well. Or you may find yourself explaining to the Captain of the Guards, under interrogation.”

“The Doctor has been teaching me…” Valjean looked down. “I cannot read. I want to learn, you see. Because someday I will leave this God-damned hole. I have a sister, she is widowed--”

Javert knew of the Doctor, another prisoner on the same chain as Valjean. He was not a doctor at all but came from a family of physicians and had done two years at university before gambling debts and adventurism landed him at Toulon for a twenty-year sentence. So it was not a code after all. He looked hard at Valjean, and was surprised to see a blush rising on his face. 

“I suppose you think I am a fool to try,” the convict said resentfully.

Javert himself had studied hard as a boy, first at the haphazard classes offered occasionally to inmates’ children, and later at the more formal orphanage school. In both places the other boys had preferred fighting and games to studies. He had been mocked because he was different. Most of those boys were probably in prison now.

He squatted down. “This is an R? Then you must make it thus--” He corrected the letter. Valjean shot him a look of amazed gratitude. As Javert rose, he saw Vovet standing a few feet away, looking hard at him. If Vovet asked his business with Valjean, he would not lie -- but he feared an honest answer would only bring more trouble to Valjean. He decided on the path of diplomacy: after a polite salute to his superior, he turned and strolled off in the opposite direction.

He walked near the top of the wall above the drydock, looking down to survey the prisoners, and watching with interest the progress of the ship‘s repairs. A new mast had been dragged up to the ship. Several teams of convicts were on the far side of the drydock, closest the sea, using a rope-and-pulley system to hoist it into place. Another cluster of men, dressed not in red but in workmen's clothes - they would be trained men, ship's carpenters - stood on the ship itself, evidently waiting to secure the base of the mast. Not far from Javert, the guard assigned to keep an eye on the convicts from atop the wall was laughing with a comrade rather than keeping a proper watch. Javert frowned. He moved along the top of the wall, seeking a place where he could get a better view of the men at work. He edged close to the sheer drop, where the wall fell away eighty feet to the sand below. The stones at the top were slick and wet. Javert shaded his eyes with his hand; the sun and glare were obscuring his sight. He strained forward. 

A sudden gust of wind blew up from the direction of the prison. It shoved Javert forward like a hand at his back. Windmilling his arms, he strove to regain balance, but his feet slipped over the edge. He cried out in fear, and fell.


	7. Toulon, novembre 1800

_I can survive this drop,_ Javert told himself fiercely, digging his fingers into the stone lip of the wall. _It is less than a hundred feet and the landing is sand. I am sure I can survive it._

All in all, however, he thought he would prefer not to test his faith. 

His stomach churned. As his feet had slipped, his hands had shot out instinctively and somehow managed to find purchase on the top of the wall. A lip had been built along the edge, probably to prevent disasters like this. It was no more than three centimeters in height, but it had been enough to cling to, and thus far, it had saved his life. Now, however, his arms were tiring quickly and he could feel the weight of his body dragging him toward his doom. His fingers were cramping, but terror and desperation gave him strength. 

Above him he heard a great commotion, as men -- guards and prisoners both -- ran to the edge to see. He heard Vovet’s commanding voice. “Clear out, you! Back off! Let me at him!” Vovet’s face loomed above him, and his hands closed around Javert’s wrists. “No man can pull him up from here," Vovet shouted; "he will be too heavy. Fetch plenty of rope and get a draft-horse from the stables; quick! run! I will hold him as long as I can.”

Javert made out another voice shouting indistinctly, and then guards barking orders, then a number of voices raised excitedly in argument. His arms ached. Endless seconds followed. He could not make out what was being said. His hands were slick with sweat. Vovet was supporting some of his weight - but he did not know how much longer either of them could hold on.

_By the Eternal Father: how long did it take to fetch a rope?_

He cried out in fear as Vovet, without warning, released his wrists. Now only the dwindling strength of his arms kept him from plunging to the sand below. Then Vovet's face withdrew, and another set of hands took hold of Javert's wrists, these ones as hard as iron and strong as vises. Though he clung still to the lip of the wall, he felt himself being pulled up gradually so he could no longer keep his grip on it. He was hoisted up centimeter by centimeter. Now he had nothing to hold on to. He was helpless in the hands of his rescuer; if the man dropped him, he would have no hope. 

He kicked his legs vainly. His arms were being ripped from their sockets, but this was only a trivial matter compared to his fear of the yawning emptiness below. His head came level with the wall and now he could see over the lip, into the red of his rescuer’s midsection - and beyond that, to the sea of bodies that crowded close behind him. He heard a guttural “Help me!” uttered in a breathless, choking voice; and then other hands seized hold of him by his arms and shoulders and the back of his shirt. He was lifted higher so his chest lay atop the wall, then dragged forward the final few feet, the skin of his chest and thighs shredded by the rough edges of the stones below him. Then his whole body lay at last on solid ground. He was safe. 

He lay there, shaking and gasping, until he became aware of the circle of guards and prisoners that ringed around him, staring down. He forced himself to clamber to his knees. Then he threw up.

There was some relieved laughter from the guards and shouts of "Bravo!", and then a spatter of barked orders and the sounds of truncheons hitting home: “Back to work! Smarten up!” The crowd dispersed. Javert looked up to see Vovet standing over him, reaching out a hand to help him up. Beside him stood Valjean. The prisoner was unchained, his chest heaving. Like Javert, he dripped sweat. Captain Joire stood a few feet away, his pistol drawn. 

Safe; he was safe. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Javert's throat. He would like to collapse back down on his belly and lie still for a while longer, gripping the firm earth to make sure it did not get away from him - but he made himself reach out for Vovet's hand. The tall guard pulled him to his feet. Javert was embarrassed by the violent trembling of his limbs. He could think of nothing to say besides, “Thank you-- I-- it was stupid of me. Thank you.”

“Thank _him,"_ said Captain Joire, jerking his head toward Valjean. “Vovet! Get some irons back on him, and then fetch him fresh water and another loaf of bread. He can have the rest of the day off; he’s earned it. As for _you--”_ he turned to Javert, “You’re an idiot." He laughed. "Get out of here, and don’t let me see you again until your next shift.” 

Javert looked to Valjean. “My thanks,” he said. Valjean merely nodded. That searching, hopeful look was back in his eyes, and the two men stood looking at each other. A vale of stillness surrounded them, and all the clamor and din of the drydock seemed to fall away. Javert had the sense that he and Valjean were alone -- as if this place, this moment, was meant only for them. 

The moment passed. The clangs and shouts of guards and men at hard labor rushed back in. Vovet pulled out his handcuffs with a sneer and an ostentiatious flourish. Valjean, his face unreadable again, put out his wrists. Javert was left standing on the side, watching as the work, the noise, the struggles of the day pressed on without him. He ordered his quivering legs to carry him back to the guards’ dorm, putting welcome distance between himself and all high edges of things. 

The last thing he saw before he left was the look of hatred Vovet directed at Valjean.


	8. Toulon, novembre 1800

That night, Javert shared the watch in the front tower with Natellier. Natellier, stocky and sandy-haired, was a general favorite among the guards. He was eternally jovial, and as tactless as he was talkative. 

It was past sunset when the watch changed -- the days were getting shorter -- and Natellier was already waiting atop the tower when Javert arrived. His broad, freckled face lit up in a grin. 

“Bishop!” he cried. “I saw you go over the wall today! My soul nearly flew to heaven, I was that scared for you!”

“My soul as well,” Javert said evenly, smiling back.

“How does it feel to be up top again? Long way down!” Natellier gestured widely around them. The tower was eight meters high, or two meters taller than the wall that encircled the prison. The vantage point gave a clear view of the prison grounds and the surrounding fields. The drydock itself could not be seen, since towards the shore the terrain rose into a line of scrub-covered hillocks. Beyond the rise came the level ground atop the wall, then the drydock below, and then the sea. Right now there was just enough left of the sunset that a path of golden ripples could be seen leading to the far horizon.

To tell the truth, Javert wished he had drawn a different duty for the night. He was not enjoying the height of the tower, and his legs were displaying a distressing desire to give out beneath him. However, he would do his job -- he always did. He scanned the prison grounds, alert for irregularities. Meanwhile, he kept one hand firmly on the low wall that enclosed the watch-area on all four sides.

“I would have pissed myself, I’m sure, had it been I,” Natellier said cheerfully. “It was that brute Valjean who hauled you up. I couldn’t see for the crowd at the wall, but I heard about it after from the captain.”

“I think he saved my life,” said Javert. He had spent the past hours in his room, trying to puzzle out why Valjean had pulled him up. Surely a prisoner couldn't care whether a guard went to his death - most of them, he wagered, would enjoy the sight of it. Perhaps Valjean had seen something in it for himself - had hoped to win favor or draw a day of easy duty as a reward. Or perhaps there was a more straightforward reason. “Vovet was there. He must have commanded Valjean to put his strength to use for me." 

“No, it was not like that. Valjean was not far from the wall and saw you go over the side. It was he who started yelling for someone to free his hands so he could pull you up. Captain said later that his first thought was, the beast meant instead to speed you on your journey. But there you were, dangling in mid-air, no time to lose, and Vovet grunting and groaning trying to hang on to you. Someone, Crevocheuil I think, had sprinted for the draft-horses, but you know how long it takes to get them up out of the stables and up the path. So what does Joire do? Undoes the beast's cuffs, then straightaway puts his pistol up against his head. 'You let him fall,' he says, 'and you'll be joining him at the bottom.' ”

Reliving his close call made Javert feel weak again. “Has anyone ever fallen off before?”

“Oh, sure. A few every year. Never guards, though! And 'fallen' isn't quite the word for it.” He caught Javert’s questioning look. “The prisoners -- they sometimes make a break for it. Once in a while we are able to stop them, but the really determined ones usually get their way.”

“They-- they do it on purpose, you mean? They mean to kill themselves?”

“Sure. We had one poor soul survive his try, a couple years ago. Four of us had to haul him back up all those steps on a travois. Broken back, he had; and his thigh-bone sticking out, you should have heard him scream at every jolt. It affected my sleep for weeks! But he was done for, and lasted only another day or so. All the rest -- phhhht!”

Javert was shocked. He had been taught that suicide was an affront to God. It was a thought he had never entertained in his life; nor had he known or heard of anyone who attempted it. He was both fascinated and repelled. “Do the men find… other ways as well?”

“Well, sometimes. You must have heard about the little one, who was called the Basque?”

Javert shook his head. “Which one was he?” He knew all the prisoners by sight and most by their legal surnames. However, many of the convicts had nicknames as well, generally bestowed by fellow inmates. Javert had been at Toulon only a few months and had not yet learned all of these.

“Youngster -- slight of build, bit of a lisp, came from the Pyrenees and had the look of those people. Nervous little fellow.”

“You mean Paquin? A boy of eighteen or so, this tall?” Javert indicated the height of his own shoulders.

“Yes, exactly. Paquin.”

“What happened to him?”

He realized suddenly that it had been two weeks or more since he had last seen the boy. He had spared Paquin little thought, except to note that he was exceptionally nervous and a poor worker. He was one of the first cons Javert had learned to recognize - the one Rivier had kicked and dragged from the prisoners' mess on Javert's first day. Many of the guards had seemed eager to give him a blow in passing, since he was good for almost nothing. Vovet had paid him some attention, treated him as something of a pup to be scolded and harassed or, at other times, protected and spared the heaviest duty. Javert himself felt a touch of pity for the sad creature and ignored him. 

“Well -- dead! Found in his bed like this--” Natellier made a gesture, a quick hand across his throat, which Javert could not interpret. 

“He killed himself in the night? But how?”

“It’s an old con’s trick. Tore up his blanket, made a noose of it, tied one end to the iron brace below his plank and hung himself over the edge in some fashion, until the breath was squeezed out of him. It doesn’t always work. Once in a while reveille comes and you’ll find a convict in his place, but his blanket is ripped, he’s got a bruise around his neck and a sheepish look to him, and for all that he‘s still breathing as well as you or I. We flog them when we catch them at it -- to teach them not to destroy good blankets like that. This one, though, the Basque -- Paquin -- he did the job right enough.”

It was hard to imagine that slight child finding the courage for such a grisly exit.

“I was there when they found him," Natellier went on, cheerfully. "He'd vomited. Face all bloated and purple, and flies starting to gather. We try to keep that sort of thing quiet from the other cons, so they don’t get too many ideas into their heads, but of course they can hardly miss knowing. Everyone talks in this place; there's nothing else to do after all."

Natellier leaned his elbows on the wall and lit a cigarette. He flicked ash so the red sparks drifted down into the dark. Javert tried to turn his mind back to keeping the watch, but Natellier's words had unsettled him. There were so many ways a man could die. 


	9. Toulon, novembre 1800

The night was long. Javert was amused by Natellier's ability to smoke constantly, talk unceasingly, and keep the watch at the same time. Though to be honest, he put far more effort into the first two tasks than the last. 

Near midnight, something stirred in the darkness. 

Instantly, Javert raised his rifle. He had caught a movement at the far end of the prison yard. “Who is that?” he asked Natellier in a tense voice. “See there? Is it Mantoux?” Mantoux was one of the two guards patrolling the grounds that night. 

“Where? Oh, I see. Put your rifle down; you’re going to blow someone’s head off. That’s just Vovet.”

“But Vovet isn’t on duty tonight.”

“No, but he’s out and about a lot in the evenings and at daybreak; says he can’t sleep. You can recognize him easily enough by his stride. Try not to kill him, would you?”

Javert was uneasy. “Well, it’s irregular. He shouldn’t be out at night for no reason, when we are trying to keep the watch.”

“Try telling _him_ that. I did say it to him once, I said, ‘It’s hard to tell blue from red in the dark; if I shoot you some night it will not be on my head!’ He just laughed. Said I was a poor enough shot that he had no cause to worry. But all the same, be careful. He’s not the only one who wanders a bit at night. I’ve seen Rivier out there too at times.”

Javert shook his head. “They should not do that,” he repeated.

“Vovet makes his own rules. You know he’s the power behind the throne, so to speak.” At Javert’s look, he continued readily enough. “Well, sure. Captain Joire is a good man, but the prison is too much for any one man to run, especially with the Director too busy attending soirees or what-have-you. And Vovet is better connected than you might guess: his father’s sister’s second husband is the Duke of, of-- well, the Father only knows, but it's someone too high and mighty for the likes of you and me to have heard of. So if he wants to stroll about at night, it’s his business. He keeps a firm hand on the prisoners; that’s what matters. That, and have you seen him ride?” Natellier gave a low whistle of admiration.

“But if there is trouble and guards are just wandering about - then they really might get shot at by mistake.” 

“Ach, there’s never trouble at night. The prisoners are all snug as kittens in the sleeping hall, chained and locked in; they aren’t going anywhere. No: our real job isn’t to keep them in; it’s to make sure no one else joins them.” He motioned to the fields beyond the front gate. “Can’t have some con’s fifteen bloodthirsty cousins coming over the wall while we sleep, can we? Slaughtering us all in our beds, and then taking the keys off our bloody remains and setting all hell loose. That happened in Lafionne once. Only six guards survived the massacre.” 

It occurred to Javert that Natellier would probably know something about the prisoner who had been shot at the wall the week before. And if any man would talk-- 

“But a week ago,” he said, “there was that breakout. The man who was shot that night, going over the wall.” 

“Ha, that! You really are a simpleton. That wasn’t any escape. That was Vovet. Him and his crew. You know: Rivier, Leschelles, and that squirrelly little Bibet. They planned the whole thing, I imagine. You know why. Because of the bribe.”

“Ah, of course… I had wondered. I did hear something of the kind. The bribe was for-- what was it, again?” It seemed to Javert the clumsiest of ploys.

Natellier’s grin widened and he laughed with delight. “Did you not hear of it? Oh, this is a good one. That convict, Montmartre, he took our noble Vovet for a ride! Promised him a fat wallet in exchange for light duty; said his family could pay. The hell of it is, Vovet actually was taken in. He's no wet-behind-the-ears, but the con, this Montmartre, he was just that smooth of a talker. So Vovet went along with it: Montmartre got his easy duty, and Vovet went around boasting about his windfall and how he had his eye on some bit of horseflesh up the coast. Well, of course, the money didn’t come in. The con strung him along for a while -- 'my family is packing up a chest full of gold louis, just as soon as they return from dining with the Queen of Spain.' But Vovet, well -- eventually he got that he’d been made a fool of. Nothing he hates more than that. 

“I teased him about it; that was maybe ten days ago. I said, “Oho, I see the price of a fine horse is steeper than you expected!” And he just smiled, in that way of his that generally means trouble. “In that case," he said, "perhaps a bullet is all I can afford.” So, I wasn't surprised how it turned out. You don‘t cross Vovet!”

Javert’s mind reeled. What kind of guards conspired to kill a convict over money and vengeance? What kind of guard took bribes? He had not imagined such corruption existed anywhere - and now, he found, it lurked below Toulon's surface and all around him, among these men whom he had respected. Had they not received the same training as himself -- to honor the uniform, to uphold the law?

It had been bad enough to learn Bibet was a criminal, but far worse to find that Vovet was the man behind it all. Javert had liked Vovet, just as all the guards did. He was affable, handsome, and had an easy manner. He used the stick freely on the convicts, but that was not improper; in fact a firm hand kept order in a place like this. Vovet even had a soft spot for some of the troubled cons -- the young ones right off the wagons, those who didn't settle in well and carried on crying in the night. 

The only prisoner he was outright cruel to was Valjean. Even there, Javert could not hold Vovet responsible. Valjean went out of his way to be insolent, spitting whenever Vovet passed by, refusing to show the respect that every guard deserved. The two men had become locked in a battle of wills, Vovet determined to break Valjean; Valjean determined to remain unbending in his show of contempt. Of course, Vovet held the stronger position, for he had the club, the irons, the uniform on his side. Still, no matter how much he tormented Valjean, the convict would not give in, so the matter kept escalating. 

But this: this was different. This was illegal. And the way Natellier spoke about it, it seemed to be an open secret, one that everyone besides Javert already knew. Why had he not understood sooner? Perhaps it was because he was still new here and did not realize how things were done, or maybe because he kept mostly to himself. But most of all, he suspected, it was because it had never crossed his mind that any guard would engage in dishonorable acts. 

It was an abomination. It must be stopped and brought to light.

Javert's thoughts went to the Director. No -- he would get no help from that quarter. Perhaps the captain would listen? But Natellier had indicated that Captain Joire counted on Vovet’s loyalty. If Natellier knew what Vovet had done, then surely the captain knew as well. Knew, and had no plans to punish him for it. 

Well, perhaps it was not such a bad thing. They were just convicts, after all; this wasn’t like the murder of a free man. Here was Natellier, a good man, laughing about it. He was senior to Javert and had experience, and he seemed to find the whole affair a bit of a joke. 

_No._ He would not entertain that notion. This was no joke -- a man was dead and Vovet had broken the law.

Javert pondered his limited options as the night wore on. Finally he reached a decision. He might not be able to bring Vovet to justice or return his fellow guards to the path of righteousness, but at least he would keep his standards and his honor. He was Javert, a man who did not bend in every wind; he had always prided himself on knowing right from wrong. Even if, as it now seemed, he was the only one here who did.

Suddenly, Natellier gripped his forearm. “Look, there he is!” He was pointing toward the south end of the complex. “See that long stride of his? That’s how you can always know him in the dark.”

Not one man, but two, were moving along the weedy path that led to the abandoned stone shed -- the place where, on his first day at Toulon, Javert had seen Vovet go in search of a stirrup. One of them was clearly Vovet. The companion who stumbled along in front of him was smaller, with a slender build and a slight limp. It could only be a guard, but Javert did not recognize him. 

“But… he is not alone…” Javert breathed.

The weedy path angled to the left a few feet in front of the shed. As the two men took the turn, the moonlight fell upon them differently and revealed more than their silhouettes. Javert saw: the man stumbling at Vovet’s side wore a red smock.


	10. Toulon, novembre 1800

The two figures paused at the door of the stone shed and then disappeared within, where they were swallowed up by darkness. The door closed behind them.

After a moment Natellier said, "So. You saw."

"Yes." 

"You needn't look so shocked. Vovet generally has a favorite among the prisoners; takes him to the old shed sometimes at night. Well, no one else goes there, and it's not like Vovet would bring his little friends to the guard's dorm, would he? I don't know who this month's flavor is. Come -- you've seen the way the prisoners carry on with each other. They're the ones who instigate it, looking for favors or special treatment. Actually, I rather thought you had the same sort of taste--" Natellier made a vulgar hand gesture. 

Javert stiffened and recoiled violently.

Natellier laughed. "Well, what would you have me think? You and Vovet are the only two who never want to come to town with us on our nights off, when we go catting. I know _his_ reason -- I just assumed yours was the same. But maybe it's just that you really are a better man than the rest of us -- Bishop."

Javert remembered his first evening at the bagne, when Vovet had headed for the shed right after the prisoner's mess. Looking for a stirrup, he had said. That was the same day Vovet had toyed with the young frightened prisoner, Paquin, above the drydock - had scolded the boy for removing his cap.

_Soon I'll have you trained._

Javert still felt a dark, forbidden thrill at the memory of Vovet's words, his air of dominance and power as he pushed the end of his truncheon teasingly between the boy's slender thighs. But the boy had not looked happy about the attention. Had, in fact, seemed scared out of his wits -- first at the drydock, and then later in the mess hall when the bull-necked guard, Rivier, dragged him away.

And now Paquin was dead. Had taken his own life. 

He looked at the shed, a squat dark hump set back against the deeper darkness of the prison wall. It had no windows. Whatever was happening within, the shed kept its secrets well. 

He shuddered, and looked away.


	11. Toulon, hiver 1800-01

Things changed for Javert after that night in the watchtower. It was not outwardly noticeable. He had always been quiet and now he was merely a little quieter. He still took his work seriously -- even more than before, if that were possible. But he felt now as if he were surrounded not by comrades but by strangers. 

He had thought these men were just like him. He had secretly -- never admitting it to himself -- hoped to find with them a sort of camaraderie that might almost, someday, be termed _family_. Now he felt that scales had been ripped from his eyes. Everywhere he looked, he saw in his colleagues a casual corruption that sickened him.

There was something obscene now in Captain Joire’s casual invitations to join the other men in placing a bet on a game of chess, or sharing a smoke, or exercising the horses with them along the shore. He went with them as often as not -- not knowing what else to do -- but internally, he did not feel like he was one of them. In a crowd of men dressed and armed exactly as he was, an invisible barrier stood around him, and he was alone. 

His eyes often followed Vovet. He was fascinated yet horror-struck by the senior guard, who wielded authority in unseen ways, and whose mastery of both men and horses now seemed sinister. Among all the officers at Toulon, Vovet had the surest hand with a horse; he could make a mount do anything he asked of it. His particular cronies -- Rivier and the rest -- followed him with an air of respectful obeisance, as if it were Vovet, not Joire, who was captain of the guards. The convicts all feared his stick and jumped at his commands; Valjean being the lone exception. During work-breaks, Javert often saw Vovet standing by one or another of the youngest prisoners: bending his head to whisper to his chosen target; touching his arm; looming over him; moving closer. 

Javert watched. A terrible loneliness pervaded him, settling into his bones like destiny. He had been a lonely child, first in prison and later at the orphanage -- set apart by his serious disposition, his studiousness, his desperate ambition to escape his circumstances. Now at times he wished that he were not so unyielding -- that he could bend himself to fit in with everyone around him. But he was what he was. His principles would not allow him to be like the others. And now his principles were all he had. 

One evening as he passed through the guardhouse, Bibet called out to him from the lounge. “Bishop! Come raise a glass with us! I have come into some of this year’s vintage, from my uncle Charles in the Vosges--” 

Javert forced a polite smile. Bibet was one of Vovet’s lackeys. He had bragged for days about his heroism in killing the escaping prisoner-- _“Caught him going over the wall! nick of time! barely got my shot off!”_ Javert disgustedly imagined the scene as it had most probably happened instead: the prisoner surprised in his bed, terrified as he was marched out into the yard at night with hands chained, and forced to his knees against the wall. Then the gun-barrel against his temple. 

He accepted the cup Bibet offered. He swirled the dusky wine within, breathing in its sharp scent.

“My uncle owns a vineyard in the Vosges, not far from Strasbourg,” Bibet said, twirling his sparse moustache as if it were a thing of grandeur. “This was a fine year, he says; the money should be good.”

At the mention of Strasbourg, Javert’s mind flicked back to the farm boy who had come off the wagons a few months before, the one whose leg-iron he had not checked because Rivier had hustled him away. A young man, to have died of a weak heart. 

In the doorway of the guards' lounge, Rivier was leaning against the wall with a cup of wine in his hand. Vovet was beside him, talking, and Javert caught some of his words - he was telling a racy joke of some kind, which concerned an English noblewoman and her groomsman. Rivier was listening with intense concentration, his fleshy lips drawn back in a grin. Just then Vovet raised a hand to draw a figure in the air, illustrating his meaning; then he threw back his head, and sent his bold laughter ringing out above the din. A shaft of sunlight from the window fell across his handsome face, making him gleam all over like rare gold.

As the sound of his laugh filled the lounge, guards turned, one and all, to smile in Vovet's direction. He was like a king: proud and powerful, admired by all. Javert, watching, felt his belly clutch in misgiving.


	12. Toulon, janvier 1801

Fall darkened into winter. The convicts were sent to work on road construction in the town. The ground had to be leveled and dug out, and then the soil dragged away. Horses were used, too. But convicts were cheaper.

One overcast day, Javert was at the worksite keeping watch. As usual, he was sitting a little apart from the other guards. He kept his rifle balanced easily in his hands. His eyes, as often these days, were on Valjean. 

The big convict was standing not far off, driving his shovel into the rocky soil. It was mid-morning and most of the other prisoners were dragging -- earning themselves blows from the guards who strolled among them -- but Valjean alone was tireless. Spadefuls of earth flew from his shovel into the cart beside him. His smock clung to him, wringing wet despite the chill, and sweat rolled down his brow. Every line of his physique denoted power. Even at a distance, Javert could see muscles ripple in his forearms. He bent and attacked the ground savagely, driving down the blade of his shovel with his muddy boot, in and then out, plunging deeply into the turf which -- rocky though it was -- seemed to melt like butter before his strength. 

Javert could not tear his eyes away. 

It was wrong; he knew it was wrong -- but his thoughts had turned more and more towards the convict ever since the day the big man had saved his life at the drydock. It was the one balm for the hollow loneliness that constantly made his chest ache. Looks passed between them often. Valjean would turn suddenly to stare at him, and Javert would turn aside quickly -- but not before Valjean had caught him looking. Then Javert would run his thumb along his rifle or find some other innocent place to fix his gaze, but meanwhile a flush would rise on his cheeks, and he knew Valjean was still watching. 

Only at times like this could Javert fill his eyes the way he wanted, when Valjean worked and Javert was assigned to watch his section. Then Javert could stare, and pretend he was just a careful guard keeping an eye on a dangerous man. 

He had pored over the old _papiers-blancs,_ the files which had accompanied Valjean’s wagon from Bicetre four years before. The history it provided on him was meager. The convict was from Faverolles, an agricultural laborer, unmarried, and born in or near 1770. Javert calculated the dates; Valjean would now be 30 years old. He was in for robbery with violence; no further details were provided. He had a little over a year to go on his sentence. 

But none of these facts told Javert what he truly wanted to know. _Why did you steal? What sort of man are you? Why did you save me on the drydock wall? What do you see in me, of all the guards, that makes you look at me that way?_

A whistle blew, and the men raised their heads wearily and dropped their shovels for the ten-minute morning break. Javert saw Valjean’s gaze move searchingly over the guards until the piercing dark eyes came to rest on him. Javert’s heart leaped as it always did. He nodded and looked away, coloring.

If only they could have known each other in another place. 

There was no written rule, as far as Javert knew, against a convict and a guard having this kind of unspoken understanding. But Javert knew he was crossing some sort of line. The convicts were here to serve their time, not to be coddled or befriended. They were different from free men. 

Before anyone else could do it, Javert stepped up quickly toward the big man. Valjean put out his wrists for the manacles, as always, and they stood as they had done so many times before. Javert was struck suddenly with a mad impulse that later he could not explain even to himself. He stepped in close so their two bodies blocked the space between them from anyone’s view. Then, for one instant, he held the irons back and let his own hands encircle Valjean’s wrists. Valjean looked up sharply with an indrawn breath. He turned his hands over and gripped Javert’s wrists as well, cradling them in his rough and dirty palms, and gripping with his fingers so Javert, for a moment, became his prisoner too. Valjean's grip was hot; his strength and heat surged through Javert. For an instant they stayed like that, clasping each other in a secret embrace. 

Javert slid the cuffs into place and they broke apart. It had been only a moment, but it felt like an oath between them, Javert thought -- though he did not know what it was they had promised. 

When he thought of Valjean that night and every night thereafter, this is what he thought of: those hands around his wrists. Hands strong enough to catch him when he fell.


	13. Toulon, fevrier 1801

The death of the boy from Strasbourg still plagued Javert. It struck him as more sinister even than Montmartre's death. The execution of Montmartre had shocked him, but at least he understood the motive behind it. The youngster, however, had just come off the wagons; he could not have earned the enmity of any guard. Rivier had taken him away under what was clearly a pretext - the boy was no lockpicker; just a common pickpocket. Had Rivier then killed him on purpose? Why would he do that? 

Rivier followed Vovet around, like a dog with his master. That suggested, horribly, that Vovet himself might have been behind the boy's death. After all, he had an improper liking for young prisoners. Paquin the Basque, too, had ended up dead - though that was clearly a suicide and no one's fault. 

Rivier was a coarse man who had the look of a natural born killer. But Vovet's gilded looks and confidence and able handling of the prisoners still made it impossible for Javert to believe he was entirely devoid of decency. Whatever else he was capable of, he would never have had a hand in the senseless execution of a child.

The matter preyed on Javert's mind. He thought more and more about the old stone shed. If Vovet had been involved, he would likely have taken the boy there, just as he had taken his companion on the night Javert and Natellier spied him from the watchtower. There might be evidence of a crime inside those silent walls. 

As Javert's dark suspicions grew, he became intent on proving to himself that the shed was only, as Vovet had once told him, a former storage room now rarely used. Probably it held only a few old crates, some spare gear for the horses, specked with dust, or a few dented pots and ladles. The more he thought about it, the more important it seemed to lay his doubts to rest. He did not want to suspect his superior unjustly, when perhaps he was innocent of whatever had happened to the boy. Getting into the shed, however, would not be a simple matter. Surely it was kept locked. 

Javert and most of the other guards had a limited set of keys they needed for their daily work - mostly chaining and unchaining the prisoners at the worksite and in the sleeping hall. Only Captain Joire had keys to every storeroom, cell, and gun-closet in Toulon. The heavy key-ring of black iron swung at his belt. Javert suspected he slept with it as well. 

Javert spent a lot of time thinking about the captain’s key-ring. 

One wet winter morning, the guards were split into two groups. One group went off with the convicts, who were laying cobbles on the newly-built Boulevard Corsique. All those who were not assigned to the watch were under orders to present themselves for training exercises on a scrubby field west of the prison. Joire designated Vovet to lead the prisoners’ group, as he himself would be commanding the exercises and evaluating the performance of his guards. 

The guards assembled on the field, unloaded the pack-horses, and set up the firing targets. Just when everything had been made ready, Joire began to curse. “This powder is no good! One of you fools took the ruined batch from the outer storehouse.” He pulled off his keyring and tossed it to the nearest guard. “Go fetch some decent dry powder from the munitions closet in the guardhouse. On the double!” 

The guard set off unhappily at a trot, reluctant but resigned to the extra journey. Javert stepped in front of him. “I'll do it,” he said. "Give me the keys. You're tired; you had watch last night.” The guard looked surprised but did not question his good fortune. “You're a good man, Bishop,“ he said, and pressed the key-ring into Javert’s hand. 

Javert strode off rapidly. Once he was out of sight of the field, he broke into a run. Captain Joire would expect him back within an hour.


	14. Toulon, fevrier 1801

The training exercises were concluded by early afternoon; Captain Joire had been pleased with what he'd seen. At evening Javert was passing the front gate when the line of weary prisoners were brought back from their day of labor. The heavy gate was cranked open and the chain snaked through it like a many-headed monster. Sticks fell on tired backs, men cursed and spat, and everything proceeded according to familiar routine. 

Then Vovet strode past. The second-in-command’s face was stony and he looked neither to the left nor to the right. His usual affability was nowhere in evidence; instead a contained violence attended his movements. He stormed through the gate, his cudgel gripped tightly in his hand, ignoring Javert‘s polite salute. 

Farther down the line of men he saw Natellier, who waved and hurried over. He was wearing his usual ask-me-the-news grin. 

“What’s with Vovet?” muttered Javert.

“You should ask!” Natellier exclaimed. “He’s in a black mood for sure. But you missed all the fun! It was just after afternoon break. The cons were back at work, and Vovet was about to take a stick to smarten up that brute 24601, you know, the one he hates. But instead he stepped in a slick and his legs went out from under him, landing him flat on his belly. Dropped his cudgel trying to save himself! We were all ready to laugh when, next thing you know, Valjean slips his foot under the cudgel and flips it right up into his hand. Raises it overhead, a terrifying sight. So, there's Vovet still down on the ground and the brute looking for the world like he’s intending to make sausage of Vovet's brains! Now you can guess there’s twenty rifles taking aim on him, mine among them, and the only question is whether we'll get our shots off before Vovet gets pounded into the mud." 

"Vovet though! Before anyone can shoot, he cries out and throws an arm up, then ducks his head down like a little girl. Scared to death - and of course who wouldn't be, with that monster standing over them. But the con does the last thing you'd expect. Tosses Vovet's stick up so it twirls in the air, a neat trick; looked like one of the king's riflemen on the parade-ground. He catches it just so. Holds it out towards our man, whose still down in the mud with his head under his wing. And says, all polite, “Your stick, M. Vovet.” Well, after a minute Vovet realizes he is going to get to keep his brains in their bucket. He scrambles up. Slime all over his face -- but beneath that, I can tell you, he looked like a man bent on murder. Tore his stick out of the brute's hand. Went to raise it again, to give Valjean what for, but I guess he wasn’t in the mood after all, because he turned around and strode off instead. Hah! we died ribbing it about him later. I said to him, 'That was a comedy! the way you yelped!' He swung round on me like he wanted to put a ball or two into _my_ head. He didn’t say a word though. But this is it; you hear me say so. No one makes a fool of our Vovet. Valjean’s a dead man now!” 

That night Javert paced in his room. His thoughts churned, as did the evening meal lying heavy in his stomach. He had seen the murderous look on Vovet's face. He knew what the guard was capable of. The tension between Vovet and Valjean had been building through the winter, with the fury and aggression of the guard matched by the defiant insolence of the prisoner. Hadn't he known it was only a matter of time before they had it out? And there was no chance Valjean would win. There was little chance he would even survive.

_Valjean's a dead man now._

Unconsciously, Javert rubbed his wrists. He and Valjean had shared nothing except silent looks that Javert himself didn't know the meaning of. The man was an enigma to him. Worse: he was a thief. It was utterly improper for a guard to entertain personal affection toward a convict under his charge. 

And yet: Javert could not bear the thought that Valjean might die at Vovet's hand. 

Javert lived by rules. He believed that for every situation there was a proper response. He had only to find it and follow it through. The law must be upheld, Vovet's anger defused, and Valjean's life protected. There must be a way.

He pondered this throughout the night. He reviewed the options, turning each in his mind and giving it a fair assessment. One by one, he discarded them. By night’s end only one path lay in front of him. 

The sun rose to light a sky that arched brilliant and brittle in its clarity. He had watch that day. When night fell, he would speak to Vovet.


	15. mardi soir

_Montreuil-sur-Mer 1823_

“Better,” said Javert. His arms were stretched above his head, his chained wrists lashed to the ceiling beam. His cap had come askew, but for all that he still looked assured and unafraid -- and Madeleine, depite the cudgel he now clutched in his hand, felt himself at a disadvantage. 

“I… I don’t want to hit you,” he said uncertainly.

“You have hit me before,” Javert snapped. “And it was good. And it was right. But it was not enough for you -- nor for me, either. And now, let us stop pretending you are doing this merely to prove a point and save the criminal Valjean from his rightful fate. You are doing this for your own self, for M. Madeleine -- because something in you burns to do this to me, and always has."

"That is not so." Madeleine had the strange sense that Javert was deliberately baiting him, like a matador feinting at his bull. But he heard the weakness of his own protest. Javert knew him, better than he knew himself.

"It is," Javert countered. "I have felt it since the moment I arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer. On the day we met, you showed it plainly: you hated me from the first, you could not stand the look of me. Yes, I saw -- even though you covered it quickly with a dishonest smile and a word of welcome. You have always been courteous-- and _kind--_ but your hatred of me reeks in my nostrils and your poor disguise as the ‘man of mercy,’ has never fooled me. That is one of the reasons I mistook you for Valjean. You thought you have hidden your hatred so well all these years? Do not imagine I am stupid.”

These words struck Madeleine like a bullet between the eyes. So Javert had seen through him all along. His black heart lay exposed between them.

“Let us have done with games and lies,” Javert continued coldly. “We both know that you are not the saint you pretend to be. What do you want of me?”

_Why did you beat me at Toulon?_

But he lacked the strength to say it aloud. Finally he asked, “Why should any man, you or any other, deserve to be beaten?” He indicated the cudgel. “No one could ever deserve such cruelty.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Javert sneered. “That is because, M. le maire, you have led a charmed life. You were born to good people and have been protected from harsh reality all of your days. You don’t know what I know; what I have found out in my line of work. And so I will tell you. 

“There are people in this world who cannot be trusted. They seem to be one thing and yet they are another. They seem honest and upright; and so a man like you puts his faith in them; but they betray you. This shocks you, M. le maire. But I have met such men; I have known them intimately. And a man like that deserves to be beaten; in fact he _must_ be beaten. Because there is no justice in letting him go unpunished for his sins. There must be an order to society. The guilty one must pay.”

Madeleine had to protest this. “No! God is merciful; and we are meant to be merciful to each other, in His name--” He was upset and so he lifted the cudgel, unthinkingly, and passed it from hand to hand.

Javert smiled. “What you call ‘mercy’ is the path that damns us all. When people try to supercede the law and let guilty people get away with their crimes - that is when everything falls apart. Even people who seem good or who begin with good intentions cannot be trusted. For beneath those intentions there are darker ones; there is chaos and desire and layers of evil you can’t even imagine -- a man like you, with your charmed life! Believe me." He gave a hollow laugh. "I know.”

“I cannot believe this! God did not make people so evil--”

“Every man is born in sin. It is written!”

“And ‘Love one another!’ that is commanded as well--!”

“Yes, but it is beyond any man to obey it. Even you, the saintly one, could not follow it -- you, who hated me from the moment you clapped eyes on me. Or will you look in my eyes and deny this?” Javert’s tone was scornful.

Sweat trickled down Madeleine’s neck. To lie now would be obscene. “No,“ he gasped. “I cannot deny it.”

“And so if even you, the best of men, has a heart of darkness--”

“I tried!” shouted Madeleine, slamming Javert’s cudgel against the ground for emphasis. “I was kind, I was! I hated you, but I never gave in to it, never treated you badly--” He slammed the cudgel down again, this time at Javert’s feet; he was not aware that he was doing it. 

Javet continued relentlessly, his eyes flashing. “Yes, but I knew I was hated -- from that first day, and every day since. I rode here from Paris wanting only to serve, to take my post as I had been assigned. And you -- you looked at me and you hated. I didn’t know why. I still don’t. You are my superior and I bear it. But despite your inexplicable hatred, you have not killed me even though I think in some way you wanted to. And why haven‘t you? Because of _the law._ Because punishment awaits you if you do; there will be prison if you do -- and no man’s mercy will save you from it. Because a place like Toulon exists and a man like you is afraid to set foot in it -- that is the only reason you have not killed me!”

 _"Tais-toi--_ my God-- no more of this--”

“Give me what I deserve!" It was the hiss of the serpent under the tree. "Do it! Raise the stick against me!”

“I will not!” A fire raged in Madeleine’s mind, and his guilt pressed in on him so all he could see was his hypocrisy and the evil in his heart. It was true; he had hated for a long time; for half of his life. He had wanted Javert destroyed. But he must fight that; he must never give in no matter how much he longed to--

“No!” he shouted. He raised the cudgel. He did not know what he was doing, but he felt its heft as it swung; he heard it smash against the bedpost; he saw the wood crack and splinters fly. Javert did not even flinch. His sneer did not falter.

“Is that all you have the courage for?" he taunted. "Do what is in your heart to do! You long for it, and I-- I deserve no less! Be an honest man, at last!”

The whole world narrowed down to just this: the stick in his hand, the devil before him, the flames of hell closing around him, a red furnace in his mind, a madness come upon him-- 

Madeleine swung the cudgel into Javert’s ribs.


	16. Chapter 16

Javert laughed. It hurt to laugh, but the world was, just then, so amusing. 

M. le maire, having swung only once and cracked no more than three of Javert’s ribs -- more likely only two -- dropped the cudgel as if it were a red-hot poker. He stood trembling and his face was wet and white with shock. Javert dragged a burning breath into his chest. My God, it hurt. But was this all? His atonement had barely begun; surely the mayor would not stop so soon! "No," he hissed, "no, you must continue--" The mayor had his knife in his hand; he was lunging at Javert as if his own life were in danger. Javert felt his arms come free of the bondage that secured them to the beam above. He could not help crying out as he collapsed heavily into M. Madeleine's arms. 

Even though pain scissored through him with every breath, the bliss of being at last held by M. le maire was not lost on him. The mayor cradled his wounded body and carried him as if he weighed nothing; as if he were a child. Javert was only sorry the bed was so few steps away. 

The mayor looked panicked. “My God, my God-- what have I done-- Javert! Are you all right? Javert!"

“It is nothing,” Javert said, still laughing weakly, though the laughter was an agony.

_That is all I get - just the one blow. After all that. And I have waited for so long, and I thought that at last, I could see justice done--_

M. Madeleine came up with the key, releasing Javert’s wrists from the handcuffs. He cut the wrapped leather from his neck and the band from his ankle. Then he lit a lamp. Javert could do nothing but lie still and tolerate the mayor's frantic attentions. The red smock that covered him was sliced open from collar to hem. M. Madeleine spread the cloth and examined his ribs, pushing tentatively where the cudgel had struck. Javert expelled another breathless laugh. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, clenching his teeth between shallow pants. “You have cracked them nicely. A beautiful blow; I could not have done better.”

“What should I do for you?” M. Madeleine demanded. “A doctor? A dressing of some kind? Tell me!”

“Nothing,” said Javert, drawing on more than twenty years' experience as an officer of the law. “Nothing will help now.” At the mayor’s look of fear he wanted to laugh again. He was giddy. “No, you have not killed me, unless perhaps the lung collapses. But that rarely happens; I will be all right. You held back much of your strength. You generally do.” He tried to raise his head, but pain prevented him. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to raise me on a pillow? And then, I think -- if it is not too much trouble -- some brandy?”

Madeleine, who would have done anything right then to make himself useful, rushed to the cabinet in the dining room. His hands were shaking so hard that he could barely uncap the bottle, and some of the brandy sloshed out onto the bed-linens as he settled the glass in Javert’s hand. The inspector took a long swallow while Madeleine watched anxiously. He filled his mouth with the golden liquid and then gulped it down with a grimace. Some of it spilled down his chin. Madeleine clutched his hands together in front of his stomach, measuring every breath Javert took, frightened each would be the last.

Finally Javert said, "Better."

“By God, Javert. I’m sorry -- again, I did not mean--”

“Do you never get tired of claiming that?" Javert closed his eyes. He was breathing carefully and shallowly. Gradually his face relaxed a little. He opened his eyes and when he spoke it was still through his teeth, but some of the pain had gone out of his features. "You meant it. It is good. You only stopped too soon. At Toulon I once beat a man unconscious.” He groaned and pressed a hand to his side. His words were slurring a little; the brandy was taking effect. “He nearly died. You see? You were meant to continue. I owe a debt to him, from long ago. I am supposed to pay. It has plagued me ever since: I have always known that I deserved to stand where he stood and take the same punishment. That is an unbearable thing, to live in debt.”

Madeleine went very still. 

_A debt from long ago._

_I am supposed to pay._

Madeleine was almost afraid to hear another word. But Javert said no more, and finally he could not bear it. “Why?" he burst out. "What happened? Why did you beat that man?” 

Javert's eyes dropped to half-mast. Madeleine was afraid he would die, and his answer would be lost like a leaf swept away by the current: gone forever.

But the inspector did not die; he chuckled. “I had my reasons. They were not good reasons, of course. But at the time I--” He shrugged, very carefully, lifting his right shoulder only. But even that was enough to make him grit his teeth and draw back his lips in pain.

“Tell me,” said Madeleine. “Please.”


	17. Chapter 17

Javert was reticent. It took Madeleine a while to convince him to begin. But the brandy helped loosen his tongue -- he was unused to the effects of drink -- as did the pain and his giddiness. "Tell me," Madeleine said again. And so, with some hesitation, Javert began to speak. 

“There was a man, a convict. I knew him, a little. Well, all right, I will say it: it was _him_ \-- the same man, Valjean; the one awaiting trial. 24601.” Javert shook his head. “It has always been him. He haunts me.

“There was a guard who hated him. Vovet. Vovet was, he was-- well, I cannot say what he was. He-- he was not like other men. He was like a pagan god. I cannot explain it; if you did not know him you could not understand-- But he was a monster too. He took killing lightly. Other lives were nothing to him. 

"When I learned that he meant to kill Valjean, I-- I was determined to stop him. To kill a convict is illegal; I could not allow it to happen to anyone. There was nothing between me and Valjean, it wasn't like that - I was only defending the law, doing my duty. And, God knows, no one else in that place would stand up to stop a thing from happening.” 

He broke off and took a few breaths, wincing. The cup of brandy shook in his hand. Madeleine reached out to keep it steady, and their fingers touched. 

“I saw my only chance was to go to Vovet and offer him something else, something that would satisfy him but keep from Valjean from being harmed too greatly. It took me a little while to earn his confidence, but he, well... I went to him; I was very convincing. I told him Valjean had made immoral advances on me which filled me with disgust, and that I, too, wanted to see the convict suffer. I suggested a public beating.” 

Javert’s words had begun haltingly. But as he went on, they began to tumble from his mouth. He began to tremble, too, and this caused him to gasp and grimace in pain. Madeleine realized he was nearly naked - along with the smock, Javert’s white linen shirt had also been laid open by the knife - and carefully drew the coverlet over him. 

“Let me get you another brandy,” Madeleine said.

He retreated to the dining room. The brandy bottle was half-full as it was rarely used, mostly by Mere Plinet. Madeleine got another glass out. But he stood for a while, gripping the bottle, comparing Javert's words to his own memories. 

_Could it be true?_

It sounded so obvious. But it was too easy an explanation, wasn't it? It was the smooth alibi any brutal guard would make up years later. Probably Javert had rehearsed this lie for twenty years, to ease his own guilt.

And yet - Javert had no reason to lie. Not to the man he knew as Madeleine. Distractedly, he poured the brandy almost to the top of the glass. It was too full to carry so he took a few swallows himself. Javert's earlier words returned to him -- _You have hated me from the moment you clapped eyes on me; I have never known why._

Had he been wrong about Javert, all these years? He must be man enough, and honorable enough, to consider the possibility. The Bishop would not want him to cover his eyes out of fear of seeing his own sins.

He returned, setting the glass back in Javert's hand. “Please, go on,” he said.

Javert took a sip. He looked a little more comfortable; his breath was coming easier. “After he came to trust me, Vovet told me his plans for Valjean. He was delighted with them. There was a shed he used sometimes, a secret place on the prison grounds. I had learned what evil things he did there." He grimaced. "There were convicts he hand-picked - young men he took a fancy to. He took them there. Inside the shed there were--" He stared into the glass for a long time. "Terrible things," he whispered. "Chains set into a wall. A whip with a knotted cord and blood upon it. Objects I won’t mention, with vile uses, to inflict pain. Also a bed with old linens, stained darkly; you would not believe it--" He swallowed. He was silent for a while and Madeleine did not dare speak. Finally Javert went on. "I only learned of what went on there because - because, I, I had seen it… one day when I got the master key-ring from the captain of the guards.

“I could not let Valjean die like that, like a tortured dog. I told Vovet I had a better idea. I knew what would appeal to him. Vovet was especially captivated by my idea of beating Valjean in the prison yard with all the prisoners present; it pleased him to have everyone see Valjean being ‘taught his place.’ I promised I would make him beg for mercy. Vovet was also excited when I proposed that it be I, not he, who should deliver the blows. He had apparently formed a suspicion that there was a cordiality of sorts between Valjean and myself - which of course was not true. But it pleased him that Valjean would be made to suffer at my hands, in particular. 

"And also, Vovet, he-- there was something about him... he told me that he--" Javert shuddered and his voice fell to a whisper. "He said _he liked to watch."_

"And so -- we planned it together, he and I. The captain of the guards, a man named Joire, was to leave later that month for a family occasion in his hometown. He would be away for a night and a day, and Vovet would be left in charge of the prison during his absence. The captain was a man not so different from the Director of Corrections or many men in authority: he did not at all mind unlawfulness in his inferiors, as long as it eased his own burdens and took place out of his sight where he could pretend ignorance.

“On that Friday morning, the prisoners were brought out and assembled in the yard under full watch, everyone with rifles drawn. Valjean was brought forward and chained so he could not fight back.” Javert smiled a little. “Even though we were many and he was one, everyone was always a little afraid of him. I think that is why Vovet hated him so much.

“And then -- I began.”

Javert looked down into his brandy and ran a finger around the rim of the cup. He did not speak. 

Madeleine was seized with a murderous rage. _Is that how you remember it - is that all you have to say? I remember better! It was cold and the ground was muddy. There were snowdrops blooming in the corner of the yard. The cuffs cut into my wrists, irritating my sores; when my hands were chained to the top of the post a line of blood crawled down my arm. That Natellier was laughing with his hat tilted back; and you, you had mud-stains on your knees and a bit of dead grass, and you were smiling when you raised your cudgel._

With difficulty Javert said, “I had thought about how I could strike him, to do no permanent damage. It had also occurred to me that if I broke his ankle he would be declared unfit to work and might be allowed a longer stay in the infirmary. But Vovet-- he was watching, of course, and I had to satisfy him; that was the main thing. If he weren’t pleased, it would not end for Valjean, there would simply be more to come later, and I would not always be able to protect him. So as I struck him, I kept looking to Vovet. At first he was satisfied but then I saw he wanted more from me, so I continued. And Vovet, his eyes, he-- You don't know what he was like. And finally Valjean was no longer even trying to protect himself, only groaning with every blow. And I became afraid that he would die; that I had gone too far and killed him. I hit him in the head, finally: to knock him out, because that would end the sport of it for Vovet. He was dragged off to the infirmary. And I believed -- well, I hoped I had done what was needed. That he would live and Vovet had been satisfied with what he saw, and that the worst was over.”

He drained the brandy in a single gulp. “I suppose for Valjean, it was,” he said. “And I was glad of that, at the time. But for me-- for me, it was not.”

The brandy was going to Javert’s head. His joints felt loose. His side still pained with every breath, but the pain was distant and faraway; an annoyance. He looked at the mayor and smiled a little. 

“I will tell you something. It has been my secret. I thought of this man Valjean. I believed in him. We had barely spoken; there was no chance of that in the bagne. But I _imagined._ I came up with excuses for him: that he had been falsely convicted, or that he was drawn into crime by his father or an older brother, someone he could not refuse. That he regretted his crime, whatever had been the circumstances. That he planned to serve his time and make an honorable life upon his parole. I imagined I saw these things in his eyes." 

Javert knew his own weaknesses. He had catalogued them mercilessly. He recognized the deep-set flaw in himself that had brought him to his downfall.

_I imagined he was a good man - because that meant _I_ was a good man, too, and worthwhile, because he had chosen me. I wanted to believe that a good man saw something worthy in me. And that was my stupidity -- that I wanted so much to believe well of myself, that I let myself be fooled. _


	18. Chapter 18

Madeleine lifted Javert’s hand and kissed it. Javert smiled dizzily. Had he been more sober, he would have been filled with joy at the realization that this was his first kiss from M. Madeleine. Though in truth, it was the second, since Madeleine had once kissed his shoulder while he slept. 

Madeleine, however, was sober -- utterly, coldly, and brutally sober. And even as he laid his lips against Javert’s palm, he was calculating his own sins.

_He protected me at Toulon - and I believed the worst of him. He arrived here in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and I hated him on sight. He denounced me as Valjean and rightfully so -- yet I beat him for it. I have known him in intimate ways, while concealing my identity. I have taken advantage of my false name, to hear his confessions about why he did what he did to me at Toulon._

_He will be destroyed if he ever learns how I have lied._

He set Javert’s hand down. He was not deserving of this. He was not fit to shine Javert’s boots or touch the hem of his trousers.

“What did you mean,” he asked gently, “when you said the worst was not over for you?”

“Afterward. There was trouble. But I do not like to talk about it."

"Please," said Madeleine.

Javert sighed. "For a few days all seemed fine; I believed my plan had succeeded. Valjean was in the infirmary. I had no reason to visit him there, but I made discreet inquiries and I heard that he was healing. Vovet was satisfied. The matter should have been over. But then, things changed. I became aware of a coldness from the other guards. Those who had been friendly no longer were." He stared morosely at his hands and there was a bitterness in his tone. "Conversations would stop when I entered a room. I had never had enemies, but now there were accusations made against me, and rumors. There were guards who refused to work with me. It was Vovet, of course. He was behind it all. He had turned everyone against me."

"But - why?"

"He must have-- I don't know; he must have suspected the truth of what I had done. That I had been protecting Valjean all along." He continued in a low voice. “I learned that rumors were being circulated about me: that I was dishonest or could not be trusted or had schemed and lied to attain my post. I was-- well, I was devastated. To have my honor questioned, when that was all I ever--" He looked away for a moment, struggling to compose himself. "Captain Joire was no help. He had always praised my work but now he said nothing as the others turned their backs on me. I began to realize that I would have no future at Toulon. My hopes of a career there would come to nothing. I still worked hard; I did my duty; but I was hated by everyone and I was alone.

“Valjean recovered as I had intended. He returned to his feet and went back to labor with the other convicts. And this was when I began to realize what sort of man I had been taken in by. I looked to him, expecting that here at least was one person who would know me for who I was, and know the truth, even though everyone else had turned against me. But no; he had changed too. Despite all I had done for him, now he spat whenever he saw me; he was insolent; he cursed me and dared me to beat him for it. The one man I hoped would still stand with me... I… I could not understand it.” 

“But you had beaten him half to death!” Madeleine cried. “Surely you understood that he would hate you for it!”

Javert shook his head. “No! He knew why I had to do it! He knew it was only to protect him.”

“But how can you think so? You never told m--” He broke off, appalled at how close he had come to revealing himself. “He must have thought it was done from cruelty alone.”

Javert was lost in his own thoughts and did not notice the slip. “He could not have thought that! A man is true to his character, always -- and Valjean knew my character well; all the convicts did. I was always fair. I beat prisoners, of course, but only for legitimate infractions. As he had committed no infraction, he must have known the beating could only be for his own good. He also knew Vovet hated him and wanted revenge. So the reasonable explanation was that I was protecting him from Vovet. He knew this. But he had gotten what he wanted from me and so he no longer needed to pretend any decency. He showed himself for the predator he truly was."

Madeleine marveled at the mind of Inspector Javert, a machine of straight lines and hard angles, where all answers were laid out on a grid. 

Yet the Inspector was right. _A man is true to his character._ The explanation had been in front of Valjean’s eyes, but he had been too faithless to see it. He had chosen bitterness, when Javert had been honorable all along.

“And then,” Javert continued, “two months later--”

Madeleine knew. _Two months later I made my first escape._

“The men were at the worksite, digging ditches. I was one of the guards assigned to the watch. Valjean slipped away during a short break. There was a wooded area nearby, good cover, and someone -- probably that fool Natellier who was generally too busy yammering to do his job -- had neglected to fasten his cuffs or keep an eye on him. I was blamed, though Valjean was not even in my section that day. By that point,” he said tiredly, “they were accustomed to blaming me for everything. I was merely convenient.” He shrugged his good shoulder. 

“So you see, there could be no more doubt about Valjean’s nature. He refused society’s punishment and spat in the eye of the law. This was the man I had once imagined, in my stupidity, to be redeemable -- a man just a year away from paying his debt and leaving Toulon as a free and honest man. But of course, why should a thief settle a debt honorably, when he sees the chance to flee from it instead?”

Madeleine burned to defend that wretched convict of long ago. But Javert’s tormented countenance made him hold his tongue. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

“I assisted with the search. Two days later, Valjean was recaptured and I gave Captain Joire my resignation. He did not ask me to reconsider. So I left Toulon, where I had hoped to make my home and my career. I left with nothing but a bad reputation following after me. And why? _Why?_ I lay awake many nights asking myself that. The answer is, because people cannot be trusted. Instincts cannot be trusted. Only the law can be trusted, because it is clear and strong and unyielding -- and unlike man, it can never be fooled, and it can never be corrupt.”

Madeleine gazed down at Javert. Anguish was written in his face, and pride, and stoicism, and above all, an inflexible certainty. The course of Javert's life could now be plotted. At the start of his career, there had been a convict he thought well of. That convict had disappointed him. Probably he had trusted no lawbreaker since. _And so I am responsible for the man Javert became. As his betrayal - what I mistook for his betrayal - embittered me in the same way._

He put out the lamp. Slowly, carefully, so as not to cause the wounded Inspector any more pain today, he lay down carefully on Javert’s good side. “I am sorry,” he said tentatively.

“It was not your fault,” grunted Javert, a little brusquely now that the brandy was starting to wear off. 

Madeleine really did weep then. But he did it quietly. Javert, lying beside him in the darkness, knew nothing of it.


	19. Chapter 19

Javert slid away into sleep. Madeleine lay awake watching him -- watching, and brooding. He was troubled, and he could not stop himself from going over Javert's words like a blacksmith looking for a flaw in a piece of iron. His mind worked itself to exhaustion. Finally he, too, closed his eyes. 

He came awake with the sky still ink-black and an arm across his face; Javert's arm -- that was what had awakened him. Javert was stirring beside him, muttering “Hands behind you!" in an indistinct voice. Madeleine smiled into the darkness. Javert’s dream world was so unsurprising, it made his heart spill over with affection. 

The Inspector sighed and fell still. Madeleine looked at the proud features and forbidding lips. He was not sure he dared to steal a kiss. But, he reasoned, he was already a wanted man. 

His lips brushed the angle of Javert’s jaw, so lightly he felt not skin but only a breath of warmth. The second kiss was bolder and met the corner of Javert’s mouth. On the third kiss he sucked at the Inspector's lower lip. _Wake, Javert! Look up at me!_

He longed to see that penetrating, level gaze. How could he ever have feared it? 

Javert did wake. He knew a moment of confusion -- _What? Kissing?_ and then _M. Madeleine!_ and that was all it took; instantly confusion was replaced by wonder. He asked no questions -- he was afraid to ask, in case asking might break the spell. It was enough to know that, for right now, he was wanted. 

He let his tongue go out daringly and flick against the mayor's. The crossing of that barrier made all others fall. Their lips parted widely, and tongues thrust deep, and Madeleine moaned wantonly as he pressed his hips against Javert’s length. Javert said “Yes” -- the word uttered in a lingering, breathy exhalation of contentment. He was scalded by joy. He did not even remember his cracked ribs until he tried to turn, and then the spurt of pain along his left side delighted him. He belonged to M. Madeleine. Even his bones were marked. 

Madeleine rolled onto his back, clasping Javert against him. “Am I hurting you?” the mayor whispered. 

“Not at all,” lied Javert. 

Javert laid his head down on Madeleine’s chest, and felt the strong arms wrap around him while dextrous hands tugged at his hair. He had felt them there before, the times he had knelt before M. Madeleine with his cock straining and his mouth open and the mayor‘s hips thrusting against him. But this was different. That had been the passion of house on fire; this was the warmth of crackling logs in the fireplace. There was affecion in the mayor's touch. This amazed Javert. 

All was perfect -- except for the buttons of M. Madeleine‘s waistcoat. These were an annoyance. Javert fumbled at them until the coat fell open, putting him now just one layer away from where he longed to be. Unfortunately, the shirt beneath was also afflicted by accursed buttons. Javert groaned internally, but again set to work. He could already imagine the heat of M. Madeleine’s bare skin, and his powerful heart tattooing a rhythm against Javert’s cheek. With three buttons dealt with, the shirt now parted at the neck. Javert bent to mouth at the mayor‘s throat. 

But at the touch of his lips, the mayor gasped and jerked away as if burned. “Do not!“ he cried out, clasping his shirt closed to cover himself. Javert froze. What had he done wrong? 

“It is just, ah, I am a little cold.” said M. Madeleine in a more normal tone. He hastily rebuttoned the shirt, then pulled up the coverlet and gave a little shiver. 

The pantomime made Javert want to laugh. M. Madeleine was making a clumsy excuse. The truth was plain: he simply did not want Javert too close. It was a stinging rebuke to his happiness, but, Javert reasoned, some joy was better than none. He did not want to drive M. Madeleine away by wanting too much. So he would ask no questions. He would take whatever was allowed him and try to be satisfied with it.

Madeleine, for his part, was dismayed to feel Javert withdrawing southward in the wake of his startled cry. He had loved the weight of the Inspector across his chest. His arms, which had been so full with Javert wrapped in them, were now empty and bereft. Javert's dark form crouched over his thighs. He felt the press of an open mouth over his groin, and his cock stiffened. 

He undid his trousers himself and carefully pushed them down. Not all the way off, the way he longed to do. But far enough.


	20. mercredi

Madeleine awoke some time later. He must have drifted off during the warm afterglow of pleasure; his trousers were still around his knees. Javert was beside him. Judging by the brightness of the sky and the clatter in the kitchen, morning was well underway. 

“Good morning, Monsieur,” Javert said formally, and a little shyly. “I trust you slept well.” Madeleine smiled, and answered him with an open-mouth kiss which left a flustered but pleased look on Javert‘s face. Madeleine had never known his bed to be so warm and comfortable as it was right now. He was surely overdue at the factory; the foreman would be moping. He looped an arm around Javert and pulled him down so they lay tucked together, facing each other with barely a hand’s breadth of space between them. Javert winced, and instantly Madeleine was skewered with guilt.

“How is your side?” he asked anxiously. “Your breathing--”

“--is well enough,” said Javert. “Think no more of it.”

“Surely you can’t mean to work today. Allow me to send a boy around to the station-house to give them your excuses. What should the message read? Perhaps… a fall from a horse?” 

Javert’s eyes showed a flash of humor. This was only subtly different from his more typical flashes of annoyance or gleeful self-congratulation, but Madeleine was learning to recognize it. “An officer of the law never admits to falling from his horse; it would be a display of incompetence. Rather, ‘kicked by a horse’ is the standard excuse. It covers all manner of injuries, whether purchased from a tavern brawl or an angry mistress. Every first-year officer knows this.”

“Ah, I understand. Among magistrates the words are slightly different. One is supposed to say, “I am called away on a matter of utmost urgency.’” He smiled fondly at Javert. A sense of disquiet was forming at the edge of his consciousness -- _there were things he had forgotten, urgent things_ \-- but he pushed it away.

A slamming of plates issued from the direction of the kitchen. “I am afraid,” Javert said seriously, “that Mere Plinet will think my disposition weak. I am forever ‘falling ill’ after my evening visits, and requiring a night‘s recovery before I am strong enough to leave.”

“Ah well. She cannot be much surprised. It has long been remarked upon in Montreuil-sur-Mer, how frail and sickly is the Chief Inspector of Police. Surely you were aware of your reputation?”

Javert’s eyes flew wide. In lieu of answering, he took Madeleine’s hand in his own and smiled in a teeth-baring way -- then suddenly bent back Madeleine’s wrist in the hold commonly used by police officers to subdue criminals. Madeleine gave a sharp cry. 

“Frail, am I?” Javert hissed.

A struggle ensued. Madeleine levered himself against the bed and was able to free himself from Javert’s grip without much difficulty, owing to the Inspector’s awkward positioning. But he was not prepared for Javert’s next strike: quickly he found himself flipped over and lying face-down in a headlock, with Javert’s knee against his back. A man of ordinary strength would have been entirely at the mercy of the arresting officer. Madeleine, however, forced his knees and elbows toward each other and arched up his back until he was able to buck Javert off. He was panting heavily, but Javert was even worse off, falling back on the bed with a yell of pain and clutching his wounded side.

Madeleine leaped astride him, seized him by the wrists and pinned him to the mattress. His legs straddled Javert’s hips. The Inspector twisted and drove his shoulder up suddenly into Madeleine’s chin. This caused the mayor’s jaws to slam together with his lip caught between. A trickle of blood flowed from the injury. Javert, gasping, wriggled up on the pillows to free himself. The mayor found himself holding only the lower half of Javert’s body, which was by this point warm with sweat as well as scarcely clothed. 

Abandoning the way of the warrior, Madeleine tried an alternate strategy: he slid a hand under Javert’s drawers. This had the desired effect. Javert stiffened and fell back upon the bed, all thoughts of conquest driven from his mind. He arched his back and let the mayor strip off his last shred of clothing. Then he lay back on the pillows and watched Madeleine with adoration.

The mayor put his lips to Javert’s inner thigh and sucked at the warm flesh. Javert let out a moan and opened his legs. The mayor’s mouth moved over his thighs and his belly. His strong tongue described circles around the base of Javert’s cock but ascended no higher up the jutting peak, though by now Javert was moaning and straining his hips in frustration. Madeleine set his palms against Javert’s thighs and forced them as wide apart as they would go. He slid his hands to Javert’s backside and with one finger he stroked the taut hole. It shivered at his touch. 

“Please, my God,” moaned Javert.

“Please, what?”

Javert looked away, coloring. The sun was high and the room bright, and his excitement showed itself plainly in his rigid cock and the desperate upward thrusting of his hips. He could not hide, but nor could he bear Madeleine’s eyes on him.

“Do you want it?” Madeleine blew gently over Javert’s dark fuzz. 

After a moment Javert nodded fiercely, still with eyes averted.

Madeleine flicked his tongue in and out along Javert‘s shaft. He had never done this, but he did not want to disappoint Javert. He tried some small kisses and then some open-mouthed ones. Javert‘s pleading moans were enough to make his own groin ache with desire, and as his mind melted into a hot, wordless tumult he slid his lips over the very tip of Javert’s cock. Javert’s hands went to his head, steadying him; Javert’s hips rocked up to fill his mouth. Madeleine thrilled to the Inspector’s frantic desperation. He opened his mouth all the way. Javert cried out and threw back his head, and lay still. His cock pulsed and Madeleine sucked and swallowed until it moved no more. Then he crawled up the bed and threw himself down beside Javert. 

“You,” said Javert. “That was…” He closed his eyes. Madeleine took Javert’s hand and covered it with his own. The two lay together for a while, silent, their breathing slowing and their sweat and scent mingling.

The bell in the church steeple chimed: eight o’clock. 

It was Wednesday morning.

Madeleine’s eyes flew open. “Must you go--?” he said. 

Javert sighed and heaved himself up. “Yes,” he said. “I will report to work as always -- that horse did not kick me as hard as he might have. But,” he added hesitantly, “I will see you tonight.” He flashed his quick lean smile and gathered up his clothes, buttoned up his greatcoat to hide the torn shirt, took up the cudgel and handcuffs from where Madeleine had cast them down in haste the night before. He bid M. Madeleine a good day, and departed. Madeleine, as always, watched him leave. 

_Must you go to Arras?_ That was what he had meant. But his voice had cracked before he could finish the question.


	21. Chapter 21

The flames leaped merrily that evening while Javert and Madeleine embraced before the fire. Their tongues sought each other. “I thought the sun would never set,“ Madeleine breathed. 

“The day seemed longer than expected," Javert agreed, setting aside his hat.

“Come with me to the bedroom.”

They clasped hands like children. Once behind closed doors, Madeleine put his arms around Javert and stood holding him with his chin resting against Javert’s shoulder. He laid gentle kisses on the Inspector’s cheek and ear and lips. He was slow and careful. He began working Javert out of his coat.

“I would like to feel your skin,” Madeleine murmured. Once again the room was dark and a candle flickered on the bedside table .

 _And I yours,_ thought Javert, but did not say it. His clothes made a growing heap on the floor. Madeleine did not undress.

They remained like a that a while. Madeleine held Javert's face between his hands and covered it with kisses. He ran his hands over Javert's chest, stroked his neck, sucked his earlobe. 

Javert, who the night before had been delirious with joy over Madeleine’s kisses, was now aware of a growing irritation. Monsieur was so civilized tonight. He seemed altogether a different man from the savage who had forced Javert over his knee, over his desk, past his limits. Was this how it would go now -- little kisses, sweet endearments, a stultifying pleasantness? 

He loved the close press of his idol's body against his own; it made him ache. But this gentle joining was not what he wanted. In Madeleine's presence, Javert's blood ran hot. He wanted to fight or be forced open; or to struggle and match his strength against the mayor's; or to submit and feel M. Madeleine's power envelop him utterly. He could not hold still for long in this calm embrace. 

Also, the mayor’s insistence on keeping his clothes incited Javert to a kind of enraged madness. He wanted to feel, not cloth and seams, but hot bare skin against his own. His did not know why this should be denied him. He looked at the mayor's pressed collar, his buttons, the cuffs of his sleeves. He looked, and hated. 

_Throw me facedown on the bed! Order me to my knees! Force your cock into me and render me helpless. Make me beg; make me scream. Tear my mind from my body!_

“Your injury?” Madeleine inquired with concern. His fingers grazed the maroon bruise that covered Javert's left side. His touch was very careful.

‘Better,” Javert grunted.

“I am glad.”

Javert itched to strike him in the jaw. 

They moved to the bed, where M. Madeleine's gentle caresses continued. Javert returned them, as he felt obliged to do. M. Madeleine was now stroking his hair. Javert’s cock ached, but mostly with annoyance. He felt like a wild creature caged within sight of the jungle. He yearned to lunge and fight and lose himself in savage passions, but he could not figure out how to get himself free of the mayor's kindness. 

His gaze fell on the spot where, not many nights ago, he had been ordered to stand while M. Madeleine took him from behind, pounded him against the wall and took his pleasure with him. M. Madeleine had ended by collapsing into bed; Javert had been left bruised and damaged and alone. At the time, he had felt ill-used and unhappy. Now he wondered how he could get M. le maire to do it again.

At times Javert could be a very patient man. But not tonight. 

He flashed the wolfish smile that was known and feared by many in Montreuil-sur-Mer. “I want to see you bare,” he said. 

Madeleine looked at him quizzically and seemed about to answer, perhaps to protest. He did not get the chance. Javert took the mayor’s shirt collar in his two large and capable hands, and ripped it asunder.


	22. Chapter 22

Madeleine was slow to react. He was tired and dazed, having hardly closed his eyes the night before. Even after the brandy took effect and Javert slept, he had continued to lie awake going over the inspector's words. After Javert left that morning, Madeleine had gone to the factory and then the mairie, where he had spent the day mostly looking out the window. His mind was full. 

_Javert,_ he said. _There is something. Something I wish to tell you. A confession._

\-- _Go on._ And Javert looked at him with those honest eyes.

_You will not believe this, but you must listen, and look at me. Do you remember Toulon: that day you fell from the wall at the drydock. I can still see it all before me. You were out of uniform. It was autumn and the wind was strong; you must have slipped. I saw you fall; I yelled for Joire to free me. Do you know, I nearly broke my back pulling you up._

\-- _What are you saying? The drydock-- you were there? you mean to say--_

_Yes! I am Valjean! Look at me, Javert - see how I turned out. Not a criminal, not even a thief of apples. I served my time. I am a mayor now and an honest man._

\-- _This cannot be._ Javert began to laugh delightedly. _You! You are he!_

He took Javert's hand. _I used to think of you,_ he said. _From when you first came to Toulon, I watched you, and I-- I believed in you. I thought someday we might know each other, as friends, as equals. You gave me hope. And then, that morning at the flogging post, I did not know about Vovet. I thought you had turned against me. That was why I ran, later that spring._

_\--Never, I swear to you; I would never turn on you. But why did you tell me none of this before?_

_I was afraid. Afraid you would send me back there._

\-- _You have already suffered too much in that place,_ Javert answered. _I would never send you back. And the man in Arras, whoever he is, I will see that he goes free as well._

_So many years we've lost._ The grief of it broke over him. But Javert smiled.

\-- _We can start again. Here: in Montreuil. You're a free man now. And tonight--_

And Madeleine felt his freedom - the lightness of his wrists and ankles, the bareness of his throat. _And tonight,_ he said, _if you will come to me, I will show you something no one has ever seen. The man I really am. The scars I carried from Toulon._

\-- _I will kiss them,_ said Javert.


	23. Chapter 23

Madeleine cried out and wrenched himself from Javert’s grip. His shirt gaped open, ripped from collar to hem, buttons rolling on the floor. He was terrified. 

“What have you done?” he roared. “Stay back!” In the half-light he could see Javert’s face. It was drawn with shock. He whirled to the bedside table and snuffed out the candle with his fingers. A nightshirt was needed, and quickly. He stumbled toward the closet and found one in the dark. Had Javert seen? No; it was impossible. The lash-marks on his back were still hidden by the remnants of his torn shirt. The shirtsleeves still hid his wrists, where for nineteen years iron had carved bloody ulcerations into his flesh. There were a few scars on his chest as well, but the long shadows thrown by the single fluttering candle-flame had surely kept him safe. 

His pounding heart began to slow, and rage took the place of terror. “What have you done?” he hissed again. “How do you _dare?”_

“I am sorry, Monsieur le maire, I-- I thought only to-- I am sorry!”

“You must never! Do you hear me?”

“I will not, I swear--!”

“Get on your knees!”

In the dark he heard a heard a thump as Javert instantly obeyed. Madeleine relit the candle with shaking hands. Javert was kneeling, his head bowed and eyes on the floor.

Madeleine tried to compose himself. “I have scars,” he said harshly. “I was burned soon after I arrived here, when a fire broke out at the Mairie. I am-- I am disfigured. I cannot show myself.”

Javert nodded. Pere Madeleine’s heroic rescue of a gendarme‘s children had passed into local legend. “Monsieur, I am sorry, I did not think." 

Madeleine still burned with violence. He had been trying so hard, just a few moments before, to restrain his black impulses and be refined and gentle with Javert. Now he could feel his savagery clawing at him from the inside. His survival had been threatened. His fury was at himself as much as at Javert - he had been letting his guard down this entire week. Images of Toulon flashed before him as he thought of how near he had come to having chains around his wrists again. How could he have let Javert so close? "Kiss my feet!" he snapped. He had a need to crush Javert. Even prostrate and begging, the man was still a threat. Madeleine was no longer himself - panic had made him revert to Jean-le-Cric, a man who would kill to defend his freedom. "Crawl to me and lick them clean!"

Javert obeyed. Madeleine felt a measure of relief as he saw how cravenly the man approached on hands and knees. Javert applied his tongue with desperate eagerness, pushing it between Madeleine’s toes and moaning as he did so. But it was not enough. Madeleine was still frightened. He must ensure Javert never did such a thing again. Was that even possible? No - the only safe course was to end things; Javert must never again enter this bedroom. But he could not bear that thought. He must keep Javert; he could not stand to give him up. He would keep Javert but maintain absolute control of him.

“This must never happen again," he said. "I have to know that you'll always obey me - always!" 

"Yes, monsieur - I swear it!"

"Those are just words," said Madeleine. He looked at the crouching man. A dark idea was taking shape in his thoughts. "It's not enough. I require proof. An act. Proof that you can be trusted again." 

"Anything, Monsieur." Javert's voice was pleading and fervent. 

He reached down and gripped Javert by the hair and pulled his head up so he could see his face in the candlelight. Javert did not resist. "What you must do for me - it will be difficult. But you will obey. To please me. To demonstrate that you are loyal." 

He swallowed. He felt sick. His next words did not come easily. They had been in his mind for days and he had not been able to say them. Now, however, he saw that he had no choice left. 

“What I require of you is this: Tomorrow, you will go to Arras. You will stand before the court and take your oath and give your testimony, and you will say exactly what I order you to say. Swear that the prisoner in the dock is not Valjean. Swear that he is an innocent man, and must go free.”


	24. Chapter 24

Javert paled. For a moment he struggled to speak. Finally he said in a low voice, "Please-- I cannot--"

Madeleine thought: _Of all the violence I have done to this man, this is the most grievous._

He had hoped, every night when they spoke of Champmathieu and Toulon, to make Javert see reason or embrace mercy. But he had failed, and now there was no more time. He had spent the previous days working his mind around in sinuous twists. 

Javert was wrong about the man in Arras. That man was not Valjean, but an innocent. Javert was trying to do his duty, but if he testified as he intended, he would actually be subverting justice. Javert would never forgive himself for making such an error under oath. Nor would he forgive Madeleine -- if he knew -- for remaining silent and allowing him to do so.

Furthermore, Javert would not ever want to know that he had erred and pursued the wrong man, while letting the right one slip through his fingers.

So, Madeleine convinced himself, he was doing a merciful thing. He was sending Javert to Arras on a mission to tell the truth. He was protecting Javert not only from giving false testimony, but also from learning that he had made a mistake and misidentified the accused man. So the seeming cruelty was actually a kindness.

This is what Madeleine told himself as he looked upon the stricken man at his feet. But he could not completely believe it, and that is why he loathed himself.

"You must trust me," said Madeleine. He was miserable but he made his voice strong and sure. "This is for the best. That man does not deserve Toulon."

"I have sworn to uphold the law," whispered Javert.

"Do you not trust me to know what is right?"

"In many things yes, but-- in this, I-- It cannot be right that I should lie under oath and let a criminal go free."

"There are things you do not see. I see further. Will you do as I command, or will you defy me?"

"The prosecutor has already heard me swear that the man is Jean Valjean. How can I stand up in court and say the opposite? He will not believe me. He will wonder if I have been bribed-- or even gone mad. It will cost my reputation as an officer of the law."

"Yes," said Madeleine. Actually, he had not thought of that at all. But the man Champmathieu must be saved, and there was no other way than this. "I know. But I will not let any harm come to your career; I promise."

The walls closed in on Javert then. He saw no way out except down the terrible path the mayor was showing him. It crossed his mind to refuse. He could choose the law over the mayor. He had the will and the strength, did he not? But at the thought of losing M. Madeleine, his heart quailed. Only that morning they had wrestled in bed - only the night before he had felt the mayor's arms around him.

He could not give that up.

"I will be there," M. Madeleine said. "I will be with you, and you will know you are doing the right thing -- because you are doing it for me."

Javert's thoughts were a sickening chaos. He needed order, and so he tried to reconstruct it, reaching out towards those things he had utter faith in. He knew, for example, that M. Madeleine was not a cruel or evil man; that rather he was the best of men. He was so far superior to Javert in many ways, that Javert really could not hope to understand all the things known by the mayor. M. Madeleine must have his reasons.

But what reasons could he have, really, to undermine the law and destroy everything Javert believed in, and everything he was?

Well, perhaps that was the secret. Perhaps the greatest sacrifice had to be made, to attain the greatest reward. In the gospels, a rich man was called upon to give up all his wealth because it stood between him and God. Was it not the same for Javert? His beliefs -- honor, duty, justice -- stood between him and M. Madeleine. They had argued about these matters, and Javert had been unhappy to argue.

M. Madeleine was right. He was only demanding that Javert give up those ideas that displeased him and put the two of them at odds. M. Madeleine wanted to possess him completely and have tranquility between them - and of course, Javert wanted the same thing. The mayor had rights over him, over his body and his affections; it was only natural that he should demand rights over his mind and conduct as well. That was part of the _belonging_. And Javert loved the _belonging_ ; he did not think he could live without it now. So he would obey. It would be terribly painful, like being ripped in half, but when it was done there would be a reward. M. Madeleine would see that he had sacrificed the best of himself - his honor and his soul - to be what his master wanted. M. Madeleine would praise him for it, and take care of him, and that would be enough. The alternative was terrible: if Javert refused to do this thing, M. Madeleine would never trust him again and would not want him anymore, and he would be sent away. 

This way was better. This way, they would remain together and M. Madeleine would be pleased and they would both be happy. That was worth any price. 

That is what Javert told himself. But like the mayor, he did not completely believe his own thoughts. And so M. Madeleine was not the only one in the room who hated himself just then. 

He faced the mayor. "I will do it."

M. Madeleine smiled, though he did not look well. "I knew you would not disappoint me. We can ride together to Arras. I will be there beside you through all of it, I promise--"

A shadow fell over Javert's countenance. He shook his head. "With your permission, M. le maire, I will go alone."

"But why? You do not want my company?"

Javert lifted his chin. "I will go," he said. "And I will do what you want of me. But--" and here he drew a deep breath "--in doing so, I will disgrace myself -- and I would rather you not be there to see it."


	25. jeudi soir

On Thursday evening, Javert found his hands on the reins as the little tilbury clattered through the cold of dusk. His back was very straight and he tried not to think about what lay before him. 

He had not seen the mayor since the terrible events of Wednesday night. After agreeing to do what M. Madeleine wanted of him, he had taken his leave. The two men had parted with a heavy silence between them. On the doorstep, M. Madeleine had laid a hand on his shoulder. Javert had bowed a trifle less correctly than usual, for his heart was not in it.

He had made his excuses to M. Madeleine, saying that he would sleep better in his own bed before the tiring journey. The truth was, he had simply longed to escape to the solace of his own familiar walls, his accustomed solitude, and the view he liked out the west-facing window that overlooked the alley. But when he entered his rooms and closed the door behind him, the drowning silence within only deepened his grief. 

Neglecting to take off his boots, he lay down on the bed. He realized that his heels were pressing two muddy crescents into his bed-linen. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about addressing this situation, but time crawled by and he did not stir. 

He was not expected at his post on Thursday morning, since he had already informed his subordinates he would be traveling. Throughout the morning he lay nearly motionless on the bed, boots still on, arms outstretched to either side. Finally, when the afternoon sun fell on him like a shower of gold, he rose. He went to the establishment of M. Scaufflaire, and there he collected the horse and tilbury he had engaged for his journey to Arras. 

 

On that same Thursday evening, the mayor paced before the fireplace. His eyes were on the silver candlesticks that stood side by side on the mantle. They looked dull, and with a start he remembered that he had missed polishing them for several days. He fetched the polish -- this was one household task he forbad Mere Plinet, despite her irritated clucking -- but though he tried, he could not bring himself to approach the candlesticks. He was afraid of what he might see reflected in them if he looked too close: not his own face but the Bishop's looking back at him, wearing an expression of ineffable sadness. 

He tried to pray but was no longer certain God cared to hear him. The terrible crime he had committed against Javert lay in his chest like a stone. He could not tolerate what he had done. Yet, he could not change it. What options were left to him? He stood up and began to pace in front of the hearth. His orders to Javert had been for a good cause: he was freeing an innocent man. Javert would be all right. Really, there was nothing else he could do. He could not give himself up, certainly, and confess his true name before the assizes court. He had an entire town that counted on him as both mayor and chief employer. If anything were to jeopardize his position, many innocents would suffer. 

In a corner of his bedroom stood the thorn stick he had cut for himself when he left Toulon. He had leaned on it as he crossed the hills and came into Digne; it was his oldest possession. He had not used it in a long time, however. There seemed no reason to keep it any longer. He carried it to the hearth and stood in front of the leaping flames, gripping it in both hands, but in spite of his intentions, he was unable to give it to the fire. Finally he banged out the door hatless. A few minutes later, he was standing outside the carriage-rental shop of M. Scaufflaire. 

The trip to Arras was twenty leagues and would take all night. Javert would be among the first witnesses called at the trial, so for Madeleine to succeed in what he planned, he would have to be at the courtroom early. He would find a seat among the spectators, and be waiting. When Javert came forward and the prosecutor posed his question, it would be Madeleine who stood up to answer.

He would have no chance to speak with Javert privately: to prepare him, to explain, to beg forgiveness. All they would ever have was that one last look across the crowded courtroom. _Yes; I am Valjean and I am guilty. And I am sorry. And-- I will miss you._

He had to hope Javert would understand at least some piece of it, because there would be no further chances. One of them would return by tilbury to Montreuil-sur-Mer. And the other would soon make a different journey.

All this week since he had learned of the trial, he had lacked the courage to sacrifice himself for the unknown man in Arras. But to save Javert from the weight of Madeleine’s own sins? He would do anything. He would give his life.


	26. jeudi, vendredi

M. Scaufflaire shook his head sadly. He would like to oblige M. le maire; he was very distressed that he could not. But he had no suitable conveyance and no horse that could manage the distance without rest, as M. Madeleine required. 

“A chaise; a tilbury -- anything!”

“I am sorry, monsieur. I am afraid I have nothing to offer you. If only I did, I would have been honored to lend it to you free of charge, since your errand is so urgent.” Of course this was not true, but M. Scaufflaire was Flemish and an excellent businessman, skilled at making offers that cost him nothing.

“And you know of no other way I could get to Arras by morning? Perhaps someone in town has a horse steady enough, with a light chaise? Do you know of anyone?”

“No, monsieur; I am afraid not. I know of no horses in town with the stamina for such a journey. I wish you had come to me sooner! Perhaps you did not know, but Inspector Javert has gone to Arras as well -- a police matter, I believe. If you had spoken to him in time, you could have gone together and shared the driving. It is unfortunate.” 

Madeleine looked down. “Yes,” he said.

 

On Friday evening, very late, when the streets in the center of town were empty and lit only by the glow of lamplight, Javert rapped at the door of M. Scaufflaire. "I have your tilbury," he said. "Thank you. The horse was sound." He was very tired. His first thought was to go to his own rooms and lie again on his bed staring at the ceiling. However, this idea did not suit him. He did not think he could stand to be alone tonight. And so his feet took him toward the house of M. Madeleine. There was a bed there where he could rest and, he hoped, a pair of arms that would welcome him back. Perhaps lying beside the mayor would provide some comfort, at least for a little while.

He was passing the Café du Soleil on the next corner, when a broad-shouldered figure unfolded itself from among the streetside tables. Javert’s heart was glad, even through its sadness. So M. Madeleine had been keeping watch for his return. They fell into step beside each other. 

“It is done,” said Javert. His voice was dull and heavy.

“I know.” Madeleine had sent out a letter by post on Thursday morning, asking the assizes judge to send him news of the trial’s outcome the instant the verdict was reached. The judge, flattered though baffled by the mayor’s interest, had responded promptly that morning. The post had come into Madeleine's hands in the late afternoon. Champmatheiu had been set free, the judge wrote; there had been a sudden turn in the case when the police officer changed his testimony and refused to confirm the man's identity. The court had been thrown into an uproar. 

They said nothing more as they turned together up the path to Madeleine’s house, entered, and soon found themselves once more in the mayor’s bedroom. Javert noted that the bedpost, cracked by a blow from his own cudgel, had not yet been repaired. A stab of nostalgia struck him. Had it really been only three nights ago? And now everything was changed.

M. Madeleine’s arms went around him then. “Thank you for what you did,” he said. “I can‘t thank you enough.”

Javert let out a sigh and sagged against Madeleine‘s chest. It was a good thing, he thought, that the mayor was so strong -- especially now that he himself had proven so weak. At least he had pleased the mayor. The mayor was all he had now. 

Tonight there was no unquenchable passion between them. Instead M. Madeleine held him with strength and tenderness. He was undressed by the mayor and laid down in the warm bed, and sure hands stroked his chest and thighs. He lay quiet. He let the mayor's touch take his mind away from the bleak land where it now resided. He gave himself up to the rough, strong hands he loved, and was soon moaning with abandon. 

But when Javert groped for the mayor’s trousers, Madeleine took his wrists and pinned them to his sides. “Do not move,” he said, smiling down at his prisoner. “It is forbidden. I am going to have my way with you.” Javert nodded and let his eyes close without protest. He felt the mayor mouthing at his chest, sending tendrils of warm excitement straight down to the root of his aching, needy cock. He struggled to pull his wrists free, knowing he would fail, loving the knowledge that as strong as he was, the mayor‘s strength was so much greater.

Madeleine, also, delighted in his power. He pushed Javert’s legs apart and, without releasing his wrists, bent and took the Inspector's cock into his mouth enjoying Javert's helpless thrusts. He would heal Javert. The man in Arras was free; that was the main thing. Javert was wounded, but Madeleine would take care of him. He would make everything all right again. 

“Please,” moaned Javert, writhing futilely against the mayor’s unbreakable hold.

In answer, Madeleine blew a hot breath into the dark curls between Javert‘s thighs, and pushed his face lower. He sucked at Javert‘s balls.

“Oh, yes, by God, please. Allow me to finish--”

"If I do, will you promise to stay the night and not leave as you did Wednesday?" 

"I'll do anything you want," came the answer. But there was an edge to it, an odd biting note that did not indicate passion or devotion, but something else. 

He hesitated. There were words of comfort he wanted to say, but he couldn't think of them. Anyway, it was too late for words. Javert strained upwards, and Madeleine took him in his mouth.


	27. vendredi

Javert was glad to be tormented by Madeleine's touch; it saved him from remembering Arras. For the moment he could see no farther than the edge of the bed, think of nothing but his rising ache, and feel nothing but the mayor’s fiery mouth on him. His world was no bigger than the space of their entwined bodies.

M. Madeleine’s impossibly powerful arms lifted him with ease and turned him onto his hands and knees. He was taut but eager. The bottle of oil stood ready at the bedside, and Javert gasped as a hard finger forced him open and crooked inside of him. Sparks of pain and pleasure mingled, and he moaned.

“Do you need more?” the mayor demanded.

“My God, yes.” 

Another finger forced him wider. He would never get enough of this.

Javert knew he was a weak man. He had known it ever since Toulon. Only with the mayor, this past week, could he let himself go -- for the first time in more than twenty years. 

“More?” M. Madeleine’s voice was silk and steel at the same time.

“Please-- yes, oh yes--”

“You will get it.” The mayor drew out his fingers, leaving behind an emptiness that made Javert clutch at him in distress. Then Madeleine’s cock pressed against him, broad and unyielding. “How do you want it? On your hands and knees? Against the wall?”

Javert knew what he wanted. Saying it; that was the hard part. But if this was all he had left--

“I-- Can we face each other?" He mumbled the words, embarrassed. "And, if you will not take off your clothes--” he blushed, remembering his error of the other night “--at least, will you light a lamp, so we can look on each other?” 

_Last time we did this,_ Madeleine remembered, _I made him face the wall so I could pretend he was just a body and a stranger._ He cringed to think of that night. 

He lit a lamp, lowered his trousers as far as he dared, and stood at the edge of the bed. “Lie on your back. Come close to me.“ He grasped Javert by the hips and pulled him close, propping the Inspector’s legs up against his own shoulders. Then he looped his hands under the globes of Javert’s buttocks and put the head of his aching cock against Javert’s hole. He closed his eyes in pleasure. 

“Please!” Javert said. “Please, look at me.” 

Madeleine opened his eyes; Javert was gazing at up him with the desperation of a man lost in a storm, struggling toward a light that might lead him home. 

He held Javert’s hips imprisoned against his own, and leaned in hard. He breached Javert in one long thrust, bringing a deep groan from the other man. Madeleine had to hold himself back. He began to move, slowly, inside Javert, loving the slide of heat on heat. Then stronger-- and deeper-- and harder-- Their breath quickened together.

“Say my name,” Javert begged. “Look at me, and say my name.”

“Javert,” said Madeleine, his voice hoarse with excitement and feeling. He adored Javert. Javert needed him now. How could he ever have imagined this man to be duplicitous or without feeling? "Javert. My God. Javert!” 

Ecstasy rose in him, but madness too. His clothes chafed at him. He longed to bare his skin, to bare his secrets. No one in the world knew him for who he was. _Call me Valjean! _he prayed silently.__

Javert bucked, clenched his hands into fists, arched his back. 

“Madeleine!” he cried.


	28. Chapter 28

Later they lay side by side, careless of their limbs. Madeleine put out the lamp and changed into a nightshirt which he buttoned carefully to the top before collapsing at Javert’s side. _A slight improvement,_ Javert thought sleepily, just before he drifted off. 

Morning came in the blink of an eye. Javert awoke smiling. Then, with a wave of nausea, he remembered Arras. 

“Come back tonight. I need you,” said Madeleine. 

Javert kissed his palm and did not answer.

“Are you all right?” Madeleine looked at him closely.

“Of course, Monsieur.”

“You could breakfast with me. Will you stay?”

The Inspector shook his head. “I will be late. There is work I must get to.” There was something final in his tone, and Madeleine did not argue. 

 

By midday, however, the mayor could not keep his thoughts from Javert. He longed to lay eyes on him, if only for an instant. He sent a message to the station-house. _Come to the mairie. M._ However, the messenger-boy returned shortly. The Inspector was not at his post. 

“He is not?” Madeleine was surprised.

“He did not report at all today. Kicked by a horse, they said.”

A strange foreboding descended on the mayor. 

He was trapped at the mairie until evening, due to a dispute over a building project. The meeting stretched on for hours. Madeleine shifted in his seat, impatient to be gone. 

_Kicked by a horse._

Leaving the mairie, it took him only an instant to reach his decision. He knew Javert’s addess -- a mayor can find out such things easily enough. Soon he stood at a certain doorway on the Rue St-Laurent, explaining himself to the widow Lestrade. Yes, she said, her rentier was likely inside in his rooms. She had not heard the Inspector stir all day. 

Madeleine mounted the stairs with growing dread.

 

Javert was not surprised by the knock at his door. He had expected it earlier. “Come in.” He held the door open politely. 

Madeleine entered and looked around. The room looked much as he had expected: clean and spare. The only thing out of order were the two dark stains, like mud, on the blanket at the foot of Javert's bed. Everything else was immaculate. There were no personal touches about the place.

“You didn’t go to work today.”

Javert shrugged. “No.”

A lamp burned on a desk in the corner. Madeleine saw Javert’s ink-bottle lying open, beside a paper covered in densely-written notes. 

“You were working. I am sorry to have interrupted.”

“Not at all.” But Javert did not ask Madeleine to sit down.

“Javert…”

Javert raised his hand. “Please, M. le maire. I know why you are here. You are worried about me. But I want you to know, you must not blame yourself.”

“Blame myself--?” 

“I am handing in my resignation.” As Madeleine gaped, Javert shook his head and smiled sadly. “Do not argue. I am only doing what I must.”

Suddenly Madeleine understood. “Because of Arras--”

“You must agree that I am hardly fit to still uphold the law -- a man like me. But it is no great matter. Do not let it trouble you.”

“But… what will you do? Where will you go?”

Javert glanced briefly toward the papers on his desk. “I have just finished my letter to the department. I think I will go out and enjoy a walk along the water. There is that high path atop the seawall. It reminds me of a place I knew long ago - there was a wall there; it fell eighty feet down to the sand below, and the sea beyond was etched with gold. Our seawall here is not quite that high, I think. But it is high enough for a good view of the water.”

Madeleine did not move from the doorway. Javert’s expression was sad and kind at once. Then Madeleine gasped.

“Javert! Do not go to the seawall.” 

The Inspector made no answer. 

“Javert!”

Javert brushed past him and stepped out onto the landing. “Please, stay as long as you like," he said. "I regret I have nothing to offer you.” He set his hat in place.

“Wait-- come back-- do not--”

The other man bowed deeply.

“Please, I beg you!” 

But the Inspector was already turning away down the stairs. 

Madeleine gave a cry of agony. Suddenly he raised his hands to his throat and tore at his collar. "No!" he yelled. "Javert!" He tore off his waistcoat; he ripped the shirt from his back. He stood in the doorway, naked to the waist. 

“The drydock!” he shouted. “Don’t you remember? The weight of you nearly broke my back, and Joire held a pistol on me. _But I would not let you fall!”_


	29. Chapter 29

Javert turned back to face the mayor. His face was pale. He stared at Madeleine and then at the clothes on the floor with a look of dazed incomprehension. Then he turned away again, moving slowly like a man under a spell. He began to descend the stairs.

Madeleine charged after him and seized him by the arm. The struggle was fierce but brief. Soon Madeleine had dragged Javert back into the bare, lamplit room and slammed the door behind them. He stood guard at it, blocking any chance of escape. 

"I pulled you from the drydock wall," he said again. "Do you hear me? You were so heavy, you almost dragged me down with you."

Javert only stared at him mutely. “I don’t understand,” he said at last. “Let me go. You are insane.”

“No,“ answered the mayor. His eyes fell on the tattered remnants of his clothes, now strewn about him on the floor. He straightened and stood erect. His eyes blazed. “I speak the truth. Look at me and see for yourself. I am Jean Valjean.”


	30. Chapter 30

“No,” said Javert. He could make no sense of the mayor's words. He shook his head. “Is this a game? What are you saying? I will not listen.“

 _“Look at me!"_ Madeleine thrust out his arms. Thick white scars encircled his wrists; marks found on no respectable man. He turned and displayed his back, where nineteen years under the lash had left furrows in his flesh. He faced Javert once more. “I am Jean Valjean,” he repeated ferociously. “You were right about me from the first. That man on trial in Arras was an innocent. I swear it: you did not lie under oath. You have done nothing wrong!”

Javert remained silent but his body vibrated with tense fury. The orderly grid of his mental calculus was smashed, and his thoughts heaved and crashed on each other, like storm-waves out to sea. 

_It cannot be-- this man? the mayor? Whom I have lain with and longed for and looked up to and adored? He is that criminal who has pursued me all my life? and I was right, not wrong, when I suspected him and wrote to Paris? And now I have given myself to him -- not to that upright man that I admired, but to a filthy convict, one who would not even serve his sentence without running out on it? If he is Valjean, he is the man who caused my downfall at Toulon, and all this time he has been using me, laughing at me secretly, and-- No! It cannot be!_

He looked up sharply, his breath coming in hard gasps. “You lie," he spat. 

Madeleine said sadly, "I only wish I did. I wish I were a blameless man." 

Javert's mind raced. Finally he hissed, "Tell me this: How many prisoners were assigned to each guard section at Toulon?”

“Twenty-two.” Madeleine did not hesitate.

“When was chapel?”

“Sunday at daybreak.”

It was mockery; a trick; Javert was sure of it. With a sense of mounting desperation, he fired the next questions in rapid succession. His voice gained fury with each one, as if hoping his rage would silence Madeleine's answers. 

“What was the punishment for fighting among the convicts?” 

“Twenty lashes at the post in the yard.”

“Who delivered the blows?”

“You know the answer as well as I! It was Vovet-- always Vovet! -- because he loved the whip; he loved to cause pain; it was his nature!”

Javert blanched and a shudder took hold of him. _Vovet loved to cause pain._ But he forced his mind back to the interrogation at hand. The man before him was lying and must be broken! 

“To what chain were you assigned?”

“The fourth -- I was number eight from the rear, with Montague in front of me and Chiserac behind. But not forever. You weren't there when Chiserac made parole after fourteen years, or when Montague went soon after: crushed by a beam, and eleven days in the infirmary before he died.” 

“What time did the prisoners take dinner in the mess?”

“I do not know; how could I know? We ate when the guards blew the whistle. We rose to the whistle, we worked to the whistle; it was the only clock we knew.”

 _It could not be!_ Javert gnashed his teeth, leaped to his feet, paced the room like a caged wolf. Then he whirled on the mayor. “No! It cannot be true. You are the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer. You were not beaten at the flogging post that morning. That was not you. You were not that man!”

“I tell you that I was!”

“No! No! You are Monsieur Madeleine. You are a gentleman. You were never a convict! You did not run, that day at the worksite with _one year ___left on your sentence! You are not the man I lost everything for, lost my soul for - who afterward spat on the ground every time I walked by! No! That was not you!”

 _Lost his soul for?_ Madeleine thought in wonder. He would never understand Javert.

“Listen to me,” he said, biting off each word. “It was autumn. It was the day the ship was ready for the mast. I dragged it into place, I alone, at Vovet‘s order. Later I saw you, out of uniform atop the wall. I saw you fall and I ran, but Vovet reached you first. He yelled for rope and a horse. He held on to you while you hung from the lip of the wall. I begged them, Javert -- begged them to unchain me! It was Joire who ordered Vovet to step aside. I knelt at the edge. I grasped your wrists. I pulled you up!”

“It was not you!” Javert screamed, turning to the wall and slamming his fists against it with every word. His universe was cracking into pieces. _“It-- was-- not-- you--!”_

“It was! You know me, Javert! You remember me! I am Jean Valjean, of Toulon; I was number 24601! You knew it when I lifted the cart from Fauchelevent. All of your suspicions, all of them, they were correct! my God, you had me! You and your instincts; you and your relentlessness -- you and your justice! And I-- I have lived in terror of being found out, from the very _moment_ you arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

Javert’s legs gave out beneath him. He slid to the ground. Then he tilted back his head as if gazing on the heavens, and a let loose the terrible cry of a falling man plunging to his fate.


	31. Chapter 31

Valjean waited. Javert sat with his back against the wall, his head in his hands. He looked at Madeleine one time, opened his mouth as if about to speak -- but then, with a broken expression, turned away in silence.

There was a knock at the door. Javert glanced up but did not move. The knock became insistent. “M. Javert? I have your dinner!” Madeleine recognized the voice of Mere Lestrade. He rose and opened the door. 

“Oh-- M. le maire!” stammered the lady at the sight of the half-dressed mayor. She held a steaming bowl in her hands. Blushing, she held it out, averting her eyes at the same time and thrusting it forward so hard it nearly spilled down his bare chest. He sidestepped gracefully and took it from her, wincing as hot soup splashed over his hands. 

“Please excuse my appearance,” he said, striving to appear dignified. “I am afraid the Inspector has been taken ill.” He smiled. “It smells delicious. You must be as fine a cook as I have been told.” It was a small lie, but he thought God would forgive him. He had told so many bigger ones for the past nine years.

The elderly woman dimpled at him. “Will you be staying, then? Is there anything I can do for the Inspector?” She tried to peer around Madeleine; he leaned into the doorframe to block her view. 

“Breakfast, please, in the morning, if you would not mind, madame. For both of us. Let me pay in advance.”

“You will be wanting your own dinner tonight, too,” she said perspicaciously, “so you and M. l'inspecteur can dine together. I shall bring it up right away.”

Mere Lestrade took the mayor’s coins eagerly and fled down the stairs in great excitement, clutching her twin treasures -- silver and gossip -- close to her heart. 

Madeleine threw the latch behind her. He thought it wise to keep himself between Javert and the door, so he set the soup down on the floor. “Your landlady,” he said unnecessarily.

They passed a long while in silence, the bowls of soup growing cold in front of them so the mutton-fat congealed in greasy gobs. Javert sagged as if all his strength had left him. Occasionally he stirred to lift his eyes to the mayor, fixing him briefly with a look of mute stupefaction before dropping his head again. Madeleine gazed down also. He was praying.

Finally Javert said, “I cannot understand it.”

Madeleine nodded miserably. “I can only say that I am sorry. And, if you like, I can explain.”

“There is nothing to explain.” Javert’s voice was filled with despair. Madeleine held his tongue, but his heart was full of grief and there were a thousand things he longed to say. They sat in silence for another hour.

Suddenly Madeleine said, “That day you beat me at the flogging post. I did not know you were protecting me. I thought you did it for pleasure.”

Javert snarled, “I would never have done that to you-- to him-- to anyone!”

“I know that now.”

“How could you have thought such a thing?”

Madeleine‘s temper flared. “Forgive me for not thinking clearly. My head was rattled for some reason. Perhaps the blows from your cudgel had something to do with it.”

The glared at each other. “You are Jean Valjean,” said Javert.

“I am.”

“You belong in prison! I will put you there.”

Madeleine nodded. “Yes. I expect you will.”

“Do not ask me for that mercy you are so fond of!” the Inspector burst out.

“I accept my fate. I broke parole and-- and I lied to you, Javert. I.. I had no right.”

Javert thought of the mayor’s hands on him; the joys he had had in the mayor‘s bedroom. He thought of the loose, soaring feeling that enveloped him when the mayor took possession of his body. 

The familiar cravings of his flesh rose and made themselves known. He wanted to weep. Not only had he been tricked and used and made a fool of, but he was to lose the mayor as well. One week of pleasure, of joy and hope-- all now crashing down into nothing. He would be left alone here. The mayor was soon to leave him. For Toulon.

_But he is not the mayor! He is a filthy convict! Valjean!_

He tried to pinpoint the exact moment he had taken the wrong turn and earned himself this fate. Toulon, he finally decided, all those years ago. He had been no good from the beginning.


	32. Dimanche

Towards sunrise, Javert leaned his head back against the wall and seemed to doze off. Madeleine remained in front of the door. He was uncertain what to expect from Javert, but it seemed unlikely the Inspector would calmly tolerate Madeleine holding him prisoner in his own home for long. Yet Madeleine could not risk letting Javert out of his sight. If he didn‘t choose the seawall, it would be something else -- and Madeleine would bear the blame. 

Javert’s breathing became slow and even. Madeleine, exhausted, allowed his eyes to close. 

Javert sprang for the door. Madeleine barely had time to think _As I expected!_ while leaping upward to block him, and the two men crashed against each other. Javert got his hand on his pistol. “Face the wall!” he shouted. Valjean swore and thrust his body against Javert’s flank, forcing him off balance. Javert managed to get the pistol up so it pointed in the mayor's face. For a moment Madeleine hesitated. Then he charged directly at Javert, getting a hand on his gun arm. They continued to strive against each other, each man giving his all, slamming each other against the wall, straining for dominance. Madeleine had blood streaming from his nose; Javert was now cocking his head to see, since his right eye was swelling shut. Finally Madeleine gained the upper hand and twisted Javert’s arm until he grimaced in pain. The gun dropped to the ground. Madeleine leaped and snatched it up. 

Javert drew himself up. He was panting but unafraid. “We both know you won’t shoot me.” he gasped. 

“You had your chance to shoot me too, just then, and didn‘t take it. But it is not myself I am worried about.”

Javert leaned against the wall. His moment of action had passed, and again he sagged like a broken man. “You are stronger than me,” he said bitterly, rubbing his limp right arm. “You have always been stronger -- the strongest man I have ever known.” He was thinking of M. Madeleine the mayor, who had lifted the cart from Fauchelevent. He still could not look at the man before him and think _Valjean_ and imagine this man in a convict's uniform, being spat on and beaten. He could not impose the mayor's weathered face over his memories of the broad-shouldered, grime-soaked prisoner in chains, swinging ship beams around with ease, driving his shovel deep into the roadbed, gripping Javert’s wrists as he hung over the edge of the drydock wall. 

“Is that why Vovet hated me?” Madeleine asked wearily. “Because I was strong? I never understood the reason.”

Javert stared at the mayor. It was so strange to hear him speak familiarly of Vovet, a monster who had dwelt so long in Javert's nightmares. He tried to imagine the mayor -- this man in front of him, bare-chested and bleeding as he was now -- chained at the flogging post. It was impossible. This man was not that man. Javert could not make any sense of things. 

Finally he said, “I think it was that. And because you would not look down when he spoke to you.” Javert muttered, “May God curse him.” 

“The handcuffs in your coat pocket -- I will take them,” said Madeleine. Javert shrugged. He handed them over with a trace of reluctance. 

“Do you mean to cuff me?” he asked. _Again,_ he thought. But did not say it.

“I would rather not. I simply don’t want to fall asleep, and awake to find them on me instead.”

“So you admit your crimes but you are still resisting arrest.”

“Javert, I consider myself your prisoner. When we are done here, I will give you back your pistol and your handcuffs and you may take me where you will -- to the jail by the mairie, I suppose, and from there to Arras to face the assizes court and be condemned. It is your right and I am resigned to it. But first, we must talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about!”

“We have everything to talk about. It was my fault that the man in Arras, Champmatheiu, stood trial in my place. And it is my fault you suffer as you do. I wronged you. I would like the chance to make it up to you if I can. You are a good man, Javert. You were a good man at Toulon, though I didn’t always know it, and you are still one today.”

“You don’t know me,” Javert spat. “What is your intention here? You will hold me prisoner? For how long?”

“Until we have done talking.”

“By holding me here, you are guilty of unlawful detention! a six-month sentence usually; except more in this case, because I am an officer of the law.”

“Then I would have done well to wait until you had served your notice of resignation,” Madeleine retorted. “But you did not give me the chance. The seawall was too much on your mind.”

Javert looked down. “There is nothing else left to me. Do you not understand? I am disgraced by my testimony. I cannot even blame my actions on you. I alone am responsible - my own weakness made me do it.”

“But soon you will bring me to Arras in chains, and then your reputation will be entirely restored.”

“Yes,” Javert mused. “But still, I will always know the truth. I took the stand and lied, or thought I lied. Because I was told to. Because justice and honor meant less to me than--" He reddened. "And I had not the strength to refuse you. How can I be trusted to uphold the law?”

Madeleine had no answer to this.


	33. Chapter 33

They were both silent for some time. And then, abruptly, Javert began to laugh. It was not the common type of laughter, but the peculiar kind that Madeleine had heard from Javert before. It was the laugh he gave when he had pounced on a man and caught him in a misdeed.

“What is it?”

“Something that I just remembered. That man, Champmathieu -- he was not the first Valjean I have been sure of. Nor were you the first.”

“I do not understand.”

Javert sobered and shook his head. “When I left Toulon, I ended in Marseilles. I found work here and there; I barely scraped by. For a while I cleaned a fish market three mornings a week. There was a man who came each day at sunrise to deliver ice, great crates of it that he unloaded from his wagon. He was your height and had your shoulders. He was very strong; even the biggest crates were nothing to him. He had a limp. He even spoke like you, in the the accent of Faverolles. I used to creep up close to him and watch him swing the crates down from the wagon, his chest heaving as he did it and his shirt damp and clinging to his back. Of course I knew I was mad. With the extra time added for your escape, you were surely still in Toulon. But I could not get the idea out of my head. 

“Years later, I was a junior police officer heading to a new posting. I was traveling through Aix during a storm when I saw a carriage-driver handling a team of runaway horses. A tree had come down in the wind, and the horses bolted in fright. But the driver was magnificent: he called out to them and reined them in with strength and courage such as I'd never seen, and they calmed for him. The sky was dark and I could not see his face - but I was _sure!_ I abandoned my own itinerary and followed him through the night. He stopped in a village west of Aix and I saw that he was a leatherworker and kept a harness shop that he lived above. I put myself up at a nearby inn so I could keep an eye on him. Meanwhile, I immediately sent off a letter to Paris, asking the prison authorities to determine the whereabouts of Jean Valjean. This was 1810 or so. I had assumed you were out of prison by then and traveling under a yellow ticket-of-leave. Of course I got word from Paris soon enough: they said that Valjean -- that you were still behind bars. You had attempted escape again, and another five years was on your sentence.” 

He added in a low voice. “Of course that time, I was not surprised to hear it.”

Madeleine bowed his head. He had spent a lot of time thinking about the fourteen extra years he had earned with his desperate, futile escapes. Looking back now, it seemed like the behavior of a madman. But at the time he could do nothing less.

“In Paris, just a year before I got my posting to Montreuil, I came across a crook called Grand-Pied who skulked mostly in the Marais section, keeping to the shadows of the underworld. He, as well, put me in mind of Valjean. By then I already knew you had been recently released and had immediately broken parole. I spent months gathering information about Grand-Pied on my own time, looking into his background to prove the connection. He claimed to have been raised in Paris and never been elsewhere. I didn’t believe it, so I tracked down his mother, sisters, cousins. I interviewed them all, expecting they would eventually slip up and betray his secret.” Javert shook his head. “My superiors knew about my obsession. They thought I was quite mad but I wouldn’t listen. Then Grand-Pied was shot dead during an attempted robbery. That is when I learned he was not Valjean.“

“What made you sure?“

“The police surgeon who examined him told me he had six toes on each foot.”

This brought a smile from Madeleine. 

“And then I came here to Montreuil-sur-Mer. And I was not sure at first, but the longer I watched you the more clear it seemed. At last! I had found you! How it killed me to know that a man like Valjean was walking free under an assumed name, enjoying respect and mingling in decent society where he could spread his corruption.” He closed his eyes. “When the letter from Paris came, telling me that once more I had been mistaken and that the real Valjean was in custody, I went to Arras right away. I looked at the man they held - and I saw Valjean in him too, as plainly as I had seen him at Toulon. Perhaps I allowed myself to see him because I wanted so much for it to end. Do you understand? If there were a trial and a guilty verdict, then Valjean would be behind bars forever. He would no longer be taunting me from behind every tree and lamppost.”

Madeleine looked at Javert with dismay. “Is that what you think -- that I taunted you?” 

The inspector looked away. “Haven’t you?” he muttered. “This past week -- laughing at me, every time I--” He jerked violently and turned his back so his face was hidden from Madeleine.

Madeleine came up behind him. He did not dare touch him -- he had no right to lay claim to that body, ever again. But it broke his heart to have Javert think he was mocked. 

“Javert,” he said gently. “Javert. Please. Turn around.”

Javert whirled on him then, furious at the tone and its implications -- _do you think we are lovers? and do you think I want your damned kindness?_ He glared out of his one good eye, fists clenched, ready to fight again. 

But the mayor was not standing behind him as he expected. Instead Madeleine was on his knees. His face was wet with tears. “I have loved every minute we have been together this past week. I was angry at first, it is true -- about the flogging post, and the way you've watched me with suspicion these past four years. I wanted you, and I wanted to hurt you, in equal measure. But this I swear: I never laughed at you. You are not a man to laugh at.”

He spoke with such grief that Javert could not doubt his sincerity. 

_If only he would rise and wrap his arms around me!_ Javert thought. _Of course if he dares, I will kill him for it._


	34. Chapter 34

M. Madeleine should not be on his knees, Javert thought. But of course, he reminded himself, this man was not M. Madeleine.

All this time. All this time, he had addressed this man as _vous,_ and bowed, and believed him a superior. And this past week, he had exposed his shameful desires to him and allowed himself to be-- Now, certainly, the false mayor would use all this against him. His weakness had led him to destruction. 

_But how I miss having his hands on me._

M. Madeleine was a stranger. He was like a thousand pieces Javert could not put together: a shattered mirror of jagged shards sharp enough to slice flesh, and each one reflecting back a different face. 

_Yet-- he knows me. He is the only one who knows me in secret ways. After him, there will be no one else. No one else will ever do-- those things he did to me. I needed him. I still do. But it has been nothing but a trick, all along._

This man was Valjean, a man Javert hated. Had hated for two decades. He must keep that at the forefront of his thoughts.

He stared at M. Madeleine, who was also Valjean. He tried to put the shards together to make sense of them. Nineteen years a convict at hard labor, he marveled, and then released with a yellow ticket. And yet, here in Montreuil he passed for a gentleman and gave alms on the street. He was graceful and strong. He struck Javert as one of that class of people to whom everything came easily. Even when he had denounced this man to the Prefecture, he had not completely believed his own claim. 

_Valjean used to look at me at Toulon with those questioning eyes. I never knew what he wanted from me. I never had the chance to ask. I could ask him now. But I would not lower myself._

“Get up,” Javert said finally. “Up off your knees. I cannot believe a word from your lying lips. I do not know who you are.”

Slowly, Madeleine obeyed. “It’s almost sunrise,” he said. “We have been up all night. Will you not go to bed?”

Javert fixed a narrow, suspicious gaze on him. “As if I could rest and close my eyes, knowing you were in my home! What will you be doing while I sleep?”

“I will not steal from you, and you must know I will not harm you. Nor will I leave. You will wake and find nothing has changed, except that you have rested.” 

Javert regarded his adversary. M. Madeleine’s nose was no longer bleeding. The blood was drying on his cheek and chin, giving him the rakish look of a younger man -- but his eyes revealed a terrible fatigue, and careworn lines showed in his face. Javert had noticed those lines just the night before, by the light of the lamp in M. Madeleine's bedroom when he had arched his back and looked up into this same face. _A face I hate!_ he reminded himself. 

“You need sleep, too,” he said gruffly.

He wished his bed were larger, so the two of them-- but no; this was only the madness that came with lack of sleep. He was so tired that his mind was becoming simple, like the mind of a child that thinks only of simple things -- sleep and warmth and comfort. He could not help thinking that he would like to rest in M. Madeleine’s arms, after such a night. Immediately he cursed himself for the thought of it. 

“I will sleep in the doorway,” Madeleine said stiffly. He added, in a tone of warning, “I am a very light sleeper.”

“You will get no rest there. Have the bed.”

For answer, Madeleine shot a meaningful look at the door. Javert sighed. “I give you my word I will not leave while you are sleeping. As you said: we have matters to talk over. And I-- I would like to settle them.” He added. “Soon we will be well rid of each other - when you go to prison.”

Madeleine finally agreed, on the strength of Javert's word of honor, to move from the doorway. However he refused to take the bed, saying Javert had greater need of it. Javert, for his part, would not stoop to accept this favor from his enemy. He was also some years younger than M. Madeleine and thus better suited to privation; to take the bed would therefore be a show of weakness. In addition, it was a matter of pride with him to follow the ideals of Sparta to excess whenever possible. 

“I will take the floor, and you the bed. A police officer becomes accustomed to anything. I need nothing soft beneath me.”

“I slept nineteen years on a plank,” countered Madeleine.

Javert stripped the blanket and linens from the bed and handed them to Madeleine with a scowl. Madeleine looked about, and eventually chose an unobtrusive area of the floor, far from the fireplace. Javert lay down in an equally cold spot, with his greatcoat for a blanket. The bed stayed empty.


	35. Chapter 35

Madeleine sat by Javert, watching him sleep. He found if he kept very still and concentrated on small, vital things -- the steady pulse at Javert’s throat, the sensuous curve of his lower lip -- he could keep himself from dwelling on what lay ahead for him: disgrace and prison.

A tapping sounded at the door, making Madeleine jump. “Inspector Javert? M. le maire? I have your breakfast!”

Madeleine needed food but he was still bare to the waist, and did not want to shock the good lady a second time -- especially as she might again be carrying something hot. He looked hopefully at Javert’s sleeping form, willing him to wake. Javert stirred restlessly without opening his eyes, muttered something staccato and vaguely threatening, then turned his face to the wall.

The tapping returned. He looked towards the door. He was very hungry. 

“Javert,” he said. He laid a hand on the inspector’s arm. 

At his touch, Javert was instantly alert. 

“Your landlady. She is here with breakfast.”

Javert grunted and got to his feet, stopped short with a grimace, and put a hand up to his swollen eye. He opened the door only a crack and made short work of Mere Lestrade, returning with a platter of bread and cheeses which he set on the small dining table. The table had only a single chair, so he carried a second one over from his desk. Madeleine noticed that the letter of resignation was still lying out where Javert had left it, the ink bottle still open. 

“Please,” Javert said curtly, motioning to the food. Madeleine thanked him and sat. It was Sunday, and church bells were ringing.

They were as awkward together as they had been their first night. Finally, it was Madeleine who broke the silence. “I have been thinking -- do you remember the guard with the birthmark across his left temple?”

Javert looked up and nodded. “Robert Bourin,” he said. “Why?”

“I was just remembering the time I saw Joire and you and two others take him to the edge of the sea by the drydock, and give him a dunking.”

“I remember that,” Javert said. “He showed up drunk on duty. Not for the first time, or the tenth.” He paused and considered. “What became of Joire?”

“He was still captain when I got my parole. Stouter, but otherwise unchanged in the nineteen years I knew him.” 

They fell silent again, except for the tearing of bread and the clink of cups -- homely sounds of two people sharing a simple meal. 

Then Madeleine said in a low voice, “Ask me what else I remember.”

Javert set down his bread. He looked at Madeleine with eyes that were hungry, or supplicating, or perhaps desperate. Even he did not know what he felt, except that he was miserable and alone with no hope of comfort, and everything was over. 

“All right,” he said. “What, then?”

“I remember the day we met.”

The two men regarded each other tensely, as if a cord stretched taut between them. “Yes,“ said Javert. “As do I. Vovet introduced us. At the drydock.” He thought of Valjean as he had first seen him. Could that man really have transformed himself into M. Madeleine? “You looked different then,” he said. “Different, and the same.”

“And you! Practically a child. In a uniform so new I could smell the blue on it.”

“ ‘Rebellious,’ Vovet called you.” Javert smiled grimly. “He said, ‘Keep an eye on this one; he makes trouble.’ ”

Madeleine touched Javert’s hand. “The way you looked at me, even then. As if I were still a man in spite of everything.”

“It was my first day,” Javert said sharply. “I -- was naive.”

“No. You were simply different from all the others. A man of justice -- _true_ justice, which did not exist anywhere else in that place. You gave me hope.“

“I was young, and a fool.”

“I have been thinking. That was a dangerous thing you did -- going to Vovet to try to protect me, when he wanted me dead.”

“A mistake,” Javert muttered, pulling away. “A grotesque mistake. I should have found a different way.”

“There was no other way. So you took the risk -- for me, a worthless man in a red smock. You were a good man and a brave one.”

“I was merely defending the law. As I explained before, your execution would not have been legal.”

“Yes, I am sure that was part of it. But do not deny you were defending me as well because you were a decent man. I noticed it, you know. The way you used to look at me.”

Javert clenched his jaw. “It was you who started the looking,” he said hotly.

Madeleine smiled. “Yes, it is true. I used to watch you. You don’t know--” he broke off and swallowed, against the emotion rising in his throat -- “you don’t know what it meant to me -- to know that at least one man saw more in me than a beast of burden. I used to dream of you. I hoped one day we would meet as friends.” 

“Why are you saying these things?” Javert cried out. “Do you wish to torment me further, speaking of things long lost, things that never were and never will be? Do you not think I wanted what you wanted? Do you not understand what I--” He broke off and turned away.

Madeleine bowed his head. “Thank you for what you did,” he murmured. So much hung unsaid between them, balanced as silently and ponderously as earth on a coffin. But this one thing, he would say. “You saved my life, putting yourself between me and Vovet. I do not think I have remembered to thank you before now, and it has been over twenty years... Do you regret doing it?”

“Of course not,” Javert snarled. “I only wish it had not gone so badly for us both." Then, speaking so low Madeleine could barely make out the words, he added, "Imagine. Imagine how things might have been different."

Madeleine put his hand over Javert’s. This time the other man did not pull away.


	36. Chapter 36

All morning, they moved around each other carefully. Javert’s eyes kept returning to Madeleine’s wrists and the bands of smooth whitened skin that showed there. Each time he looked at them, he felt a fresh pang of shock and disbelief. 

“It is no use,” he said finally. “I cannot go on like this forever. And you cannot stay here keeping watch on me.” His stern dark conviction of the day before, that had made him certain that the seawall was his proper end, had fled during the night. In its place was only a gray and murky uncertainty, as if he had been set adrift in a small boat in the fog. He did not know what to do. Gray was not a color he was accustomed to, or one he endured with patience.

“Suppose," Madeleine suggested, "that tomorrow you rise like any morning, and go to your post. You are Inspector Javert, back from Arras, where you prevented a miscarriage of justice and freed an innocent man.”

“Inspector Javert," answered the other in a low mutter. "A man whose testimony can be bought. And not even with silver, but with--” His gaze fell on Madeleine's broad chest, the golden hairs curling across it with a few white ones scattered here and there, the weathered planes of his face, the scars around his wrists. Javert's face contorted in pain, and he looked away.

Madeleine said suddenly, “Do you know what my crime was? -- the crime for which I was imprisoned?”

Javert snorted. “Of course. Robbery with violence.”

“Ask me what I stole.”

“It matters not. A thief is a thief.”

 _“A loaf of bread,"_ Madeleine spat. "My sister was widowed and her children were starving.”

“Are you hoping to play for my sympathy? The law is the law! You knew theft was a crime.”

“Listen: I will tell you how about the night I broke the bakery window,” Madeleine said. “There had been no work for weeks, not for my sister and not for me. No money; no food. Her youngest lay in the cradle by the fire, too weak even to cry. When she opened her mouth no sound came out. Every day we watched her sink towards death. 

“I was raised to be honest; I had never stolen. But that night as I pulled on my boots and took the road to town, I already knew what I would do. Standing outside the bakery, I peered in through the glass. By the light of the streetlamps I could see the loaves left over from the day’s baking -- the honey-color of their crusts, the dusting of flour on the floor with the baker's footprints still in it. In that moment I would have paid any price -- even if the penalty were my death; even if my executioner stood waiting behind me. On that night, love for my family was stronger than the law. For one moment, I was weak. But I was not a bad man, nor a criminal at heart. And neither are you.”

Javert‘s face was hard. “You are saying it was the same for me in Arras. That what I did, I did for you, because of- of what? Love?" He sneered. "And so it is excusable in your way of thinking. That is not true. It is not honorable and it is not the law.” 

“No! I am saying a man can do wrong and still go on and strive to do right, the same as any other man. You say you saw that possibility in me once, when you first knew me at Toulon. I see it in you now.” He heard himself pleading. “Javert, please: do not resign. Do with me as you will, but the city needs you.”

“I have fallen once. I might fall again,” Javert muttered.

“You will not want to hear this -- but I imagine you have already fallen enough times that God has stopped counting. At least now, perhaps" - and he smiled, for in spite of everything it did seem funny - "no more innocent men will be in danger of having you stalk them in the night, mistaking them for the scoundrel Valjean.”

They looked at each other intently for a moment. Then Javert turned away abruptly and went to stand by the window. He looked out on the alley below. Two ragged boys were chasing each other around a pile of refuse. Their voices floated up to him. “Did _not!”_ “Did _too!”_

Madeleine stepped up quietly behind him and Javert felt those arms go around his waist. He stiffened, but only for an instant. Well, where was the harm? It was little enough solace, for what this man had put him through. He leaned into the embrace and allowed Madeleine -- no, Valjean, it had always been Valjean, since the beginning -- to hold him up. 

_All I ever wanted,_ Javert thought. 

Madeleine, his arms full and his soul for the moment at peace, wished they could stay like this forever.

 

“Tell me this,” Javert asked, after a moment. “Why did you reveal yourself to me last night? You could have kept silent and let me go off to the seawall and do what was in my mind to do. Then you would have lived and died as M. Madeleine; no one would be the wiser.”

“Need you ask me that?”

“Yes.” 

“I could not lose you like that. Everything was my fault anyway. I thought if I proved to you that Champmathieu was innocent--” He shrugged helplessly. 

“Is that also why you were desperate to rent a conveyance to Arras on Thursday night? To give yourself up?" Madeleine looked at him in surprise. "Yes; of course I heard," Javert said. "Friday night, when I returned the tilbury to Scaufflaire - he told me you had come to him.”

“That is true.” Madeleine reflected on this. If Scaufflaire had had a tilbury and he had made it to Arras in time, they would not be here now. He would be in the jail at Arras in Champmathieu's place. And Javert would be here in his quarters, alone, trying to make sense of what the false mayor had done to him. Perhaps this was better after all. At least now, he had the chance to beg forgiveness. 

Enough indulgence of my weakness, thought Javert. He pulled himself out of Madeleine’s arms and spun to face him. “I do not know what to do about you. You are a criminal,” he frowned, “but yet your actions are not so consistent with the criminal nature. I cannot understand it. Also, I suspect I am still in your debt, from that day at the drydock wall. I need time to think.” He saw that the other man kept his arms a little ways out from his body, as if ready to welcome him back into them. They could embrace and lean against each other. But of course that was unthinkable. 

Madeleine said, “Then may I have your word that you will not resign yet -- nor harm yourself?”

In answer, Javert went to his desk, folded his letter of resignation and set it in a drawer. “Not today,” he said. “Not yet. Not until I have thought it over for a while. My mind is reeling. I must make sure I do the right thing - this time.” 

“And-- will you arrest me now?” Madeleine brought out Javert’s pistol and handcuffs from the waist of his trousers and laid them down on the table. He was afraid to hear the answer. “Take them. And take me to the jail, if that is what you must do.” He could see it all again, the fate that lay before him. He would soon be on the wagon bound for Toulon, a collar around his neck and the years stretching out with nothing but the grave to look forward to. But he had brought it upon himself, and would face it as bravely as he could.

“That, too, is something I must think about.”

It was, at least, a temporary reprieve. Madeleine was grateful. “Then -- with your permission -- I will continue in Montreuil-sur-Mer as Madeleine. But I will be available any time the Inspector of Police wishes to apprehend me. I believe you know my address.”

The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of Javert's mouth. Emboldened, Madeleine said, “Tonight -- will you come, as before? I would like to know that you are well. And I-- I will miss you if you stay away.”

But those were the wrong words, for Javert’s face blackened in an instant. He hissed, “You cannot think that I would continue-- as before-- with a man such as you! Do not dare touch me, ever!-- ever again!” He strode to the closet and produced a shirt. “Here,” he said, hurling it at Madeleine. “It will be a poor fit but it is all I have. You may take my spare coat as well. Get out. I will let you know when I decide about your fate.”

The shirt and coat were, indeed, a little narrow about the shoulders, but as Madeleine reflected, the shapes of things could not be changed by wishing. Only in the doorway did he turn back for a moment. “I did not mean what you thought,” he said quietly. “Only that you are always welcome at my home. We could sit together. We could have a glass of wine, and talk. No more than that.” 

He swung about and departed. As he made his way down the cramped staircase, a dark weight descended on him. For some hours he had been Valjean, his name known, his chest bare, his scars and past exposed. For so many years he had kept his name and past a secret and been accustomed to being Madeleine as he moved in the world -- but just now this false and shimmering illusion seemed a burden heavy enough to crush his soul. 

He steeled himself, and stepped out into the sunlight.


	37. Chapter 37

When Madeleine got home, he changed out of Javert’s clothes and set them aside for Mere Plinet to wash and press the following day. Sunday was her day out. She had gone off in the morning to visit a married daughter ten kilometers outside the town, as was her usual routine.

As the afternoon wore on, Madeleine looked through his cabinets and found a bottle of good wine, which he dusted and set on his table. He found his chessboard, not used in years, and reacquainted himself with the pieces; Javert had mentioned one night that he had learned to play at Toulon. After that, Madeleine sat down to his dinner. Mere Plinet always left a cold dish for him when she went out, but tonight he had little appetite. Pushing aside his plate, he tried to concentrate on some factory business he had brought home the week before. Finally, he stoked the fire and settled himself before it.

When the knock finally came, he leaped up eagerly. His spirit sang with relief as well as excitement, for he had been afraid Javert would not come. In the front room he paused and made an effort to calm himself -- he took a breath, smoothed back his hair, and prepared a nonchalant expression. He did not wish to seem too much of a fool. Thus prepared, he threw open the door. 

The doorstep was deserted, and the lane beyond lay in gloom and shadow. A few dry leaves scudded along the cobbles. The wind was brisk. At the side of the house, a young tree bent in the gusts so that one low branch knocked occasionally against the fence beside it. 

Madeleine, chagrined, returned to his chair by the fire. He felt a strange sensation in his belly, as if his intestines were spooling and twisting ceaselessly upon themselves. He took a book from the shelf and moved his eyes over the words for a while, without realizing that he was rereading the same sentences repeatedly with no understanding. Past midnight, he decided to rest his eyes a little. When he opened them a moment later, his back was stiff and the fire had burned down to ashes. 

He got up and headed to bed. On the way, he returned to the door, put out his head, and looked for a long moment up and down the silent lane. Then, clutching his hands together, he made the long, slow retreat to his bedroom.

 

Javert, too, slept fitfully through the night. On Monday he dressed in his uniform. He had not worn it since the day of the trial and was apprehensive about putting it on, but once buttoned up inside of it he felt reassured, almost as invulnerable as always. As he entered the station-house, his subordinates welcomed him back as if it were a day like any other, with the same nervous deference they always showed on his arrival. This reassured him further. He had been afraid that his actions in Arras and with the mayor were somehow imprinted on his face.

Dubois, the youngster just assigned from Paris, approached Javert’s desk diffidently. He had been around only a few weeks but was doing well. Like Javert, he had come to the police service by way of a Parisian orphanage. 

“What is it?” Javert asked brusquely. 

“Sir, I wonder if you would tell me about the outcome of the trial? Did the thief get put away?”

Javert expected his subordinates to respect and obey him. If they feared him a little as well, that was all to the good. If they admired him, as Dubois obviously did -- well, he enjoyed that like any leader of men. But Dubois had a naive quality which Javert found disturbing. His eagerness to please was strangely repellent. At times Javert itched to tell him to grow up and before someone took advantage. 

He was tired, having spent the night before digging his nails into his palms and pacing. All night he had fought the desire to stride through the streets and return to the home of the mayor. He hated M. Madeleine for unleashing this weakness that he could barely keep in check. But of course the fault was his own. He must put the matter behind him and concentrate fully on his work for now, until his mind was clear. Then he would arrest the mayor formally, and submit his letter of resignation directly to Paris.

Dubois looked up at him with a hopeful, almost worshipful expression. Inexplicably, nausea hit Javert like a fist in the belly. 

“The man in Arras was innocent,” he snarled, turning away. “I am busy.”

The day was long, and when it ended Javert returned home and lay down without eating and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling until sleep finally came. He was determined to keep himself from going to the home of M. Madeleine. His thoughts and his dreams, however, flouted his orders and dwelt there anyway.


	38. Chapter 38

The next night, Madeleine ate dinner alone, his only company being the cheerful off-key singing of Mere Plinet as she fussed about in the kitchen. He still had hope Javert would come to him. But once again the evening stretched out interminably, until at last he retired to his bed in bitter disappointment. 

More days passed, and more nights. Eventually a whole week elapsed since Javert's return from Arras. Madeleine returned to his normal routine, trying to fill his hours with chores great and small. Every morning he awoke alone in a room that seemed cold and joyless. The factory kept his mind busy, with its employment problems, lines of figures to be calculated, niggling accounts to oversee. In the afternoons he found things to occupy himself at the mairie. On Wednesday he arranged a special meeting with town leaders to discuss the summer problem of cholera outbreaks in the northside tenement district. He outdid himself in passion and persuasion, and by the meeting's end, all present had agreed to support the construction of a new well. On Thursday evening he visited the sick at the hospital, and the patients brightened at his prayers and gentle words of solace. 

Sunday came around again and he found himself in his usual pew, listening as the priest intoned the majestic words he knew so well. He kept his head bowed throughout the service. When the Mass was over and he emerged back into the open air, he felt a small measure of peace and hope. Taking this as divine encouragement, he spent the rest of the day in his garden and orchard, engaged in quiet prayer. He knew he had a lot to atone for. 

It was spring and the weather was warming but still the evenings were cool, so he retained his habit of lighting a fire after dinner. However, he no longer listened hopefully for the knock at the door. He understood now that Javert would not return - or rather, that when he did, he would be coming not as a man or a friend but as an officer of the law, with manacles and a summons, to lead Madeleine away in chains. 

 

Meanwhile, Javert too worked long hours. He had always done so, but now he woke before dawn and arrived at the station-house when his colleagues were just stirring in their beds. He took on extra duties, patrolled the dangerous parts of town, and stayed late at his desk perfecting his reports. 

He had developed a morbid dislike of his quiet room on the second floor of the Rue St-Laurent. At first the echo of M. Madeleine's presence had seemed to grace every corner -- he could still see the mayor sitting at the table tearing the heel off a fresh baguette, or crouched in the doorway like a tiger, leaping on him as he tried to pass. But as days went by, the mayor’s visit struck Javert in a different and tragic light -- he felt, looking back now, that he had let his last chance for happiness slip through his fingers. 

Well; no matter. A man must go on.

But it plagued him to remember that at the window, the mayor had come up behind him and taken him in his arms, and that he had been the one to pull away. It had been he who threw a shirt at the mayor and ordered him out; he who had slammed the door against the mayor's humble offer of hospitality and friendship. 

The shadow of his testimony at Arras still hung over him. Gradually he came to accept that he could and would go on, in spite of the terrible thing he had done. M. Madeleine had been right: he had made terrible mistakes before and yet had continued to work and remain fierce in upholding the law. This time, however, he was left changed and shaken. No longer could he think of himself as the infallible sword of justice. Now he hesitated over decisions; he was less fierce and more careful. More than once, a subordinate asked him tentatively if he were unwell. 

Always before, Javert had divided people into two groups, separate as white and black -- but now as he thought about the mayor, who was also the convict, and who had been his lover, he found himself distraught by the appalling suspicion that the line between the two was not a hard straight barrier, but a chaotic borderland in which the dark mingled with the light. On the one side lay a few rare criminals capable of doing good; on the other, a few law-abiding men tempted into evil. 

He did not enjoy these thoughts.

Meanwhile he had not yet dealt with the false Madeleine, who was continuing to go about town maintaining his pretense of respectability. _I will let you know when I decide your fate,_ he had told the mayor. Yet he shrank from making the decision. For this, he convicted himself of both cowardice and indulgence. 

The mayor was a criminal, and criminals belonged in prison. He reminded himself of this quite often. But also when he thought of the mayor, and Valjean's _papers-blancs_ , he saw in his mind a street in a small town, quiet because it was late at night; a bakery window piled with bread; and a young man, desperate to feed his family, crying as he lifted a rock to smash the glass. 

Javert's day off was Sunday. He neatened his room and his desk, though they did not need it. For a while he wandered in town, then went to the station-house just to make sure the place was still standing despite his absence, then he returned home, paced for a while, and ate his evening meal. He had thought to retire early -- he had been unusually tired all week -- but found he could not sleep. Eventually restlessness overtook him. He pulled on his boots and went out, leaving his pistol behind but stashing his cudgel under his coat. 

It would be a good opportunity, he thought, to walk the dockside area and keep an eye on what went on there after dark. His face was generally known to many of the street-rabble, and in the light he would not have been able to walk unrecognized. At this hour, however, wearing plain clothes, his hat pulled low and the shadows giving him cover, he could pass unnoticed.

As he crossed the far end of the Avenue des Chevaux on the decidedly seedy side of the docks, a slim figure darted out of an alley. The girl -- for it was a girl -- stumbled and lost her footing as she dashed past him, almost falling into his arms. “Oh! ’scuse me, sir!” she exclaimed, flashing a fetching, nervous smile. She righted herself and made to run off, but he grabbed her arm and held her fast. He dug his fingers into the tender skin above her elbow. 

“My wallet,” he said. 

Reluctantly, she brought her free hand out from behind her back. He returned the wallet to his pocket.

The girl was little more than a child, perhaps fourteen years of age. Her bare toes stuck out of broken shoes. Her dress was vulgar and made for a grown woman, with a low-cut front that merely emphasized her undeveloped chest and showed every line of her fragile ribs. Her cheeks were rouged, her lips smeared garishly with cheap color. 

“Police,“ he told her grimly. “You are coming with me. It‘s too late to do the paperwork tonight, so you can wait in the cells until tomorrow, when I decide what to do with you.”

He had expected a great outcry and the usual torrent of apologies and false promises. But instead the girl just shivered and looked down.

“My mother,” she whispered finally. “Cannot we tell her where I am going? She will die of fright when she finds me gone.”

“I doubt she will be much surprised at anything that befalls you -- seeing as she allows you to run wild all night in a place like this.”

“No! No, it’s not like that. She doesn’t know I am gone, you see -- she would never allow it! I crept out while she slept.”

“Better and better,” Javert sneered. 

She raised her head then and threw him a defiant glare. “What do you know about it? I have to earn money. _Maman_ is too ill to work, and I am the oldest. It is all up to me now.” 

“Then I am sorry that _this_ is your idea of work.” He produced his handcuffs, though the girl was so slight he barely saw a need for them. “You should have found an honest job."

“And who would have me?” she demanded.

The door of a nearby tavern swung open, and a pair of drunken seamen lurched toward them. Spotting the girl, one of the men called in a slurred voice. “Girlie, what price? Whatever that one is giving you, we will double it -- my friend and I both; twice the fun, hey?” The girl shuddered and tensed her frail body. She looked at the ground as the men approached. 

The one who had called out to her now staggered close and grabbed her by her free arm. “Come now, little one, leave this stiff alone and come with us! A party!” Brandy fumes assailed Javert’s nostrils. The drunk was tugging on the girl, making as if to pull her in half, while his companion stood by leering at the entertainment. The girl, for her part, began struggling against her drunken assailant and Javert both, in a desperate bid for freedom.

Javert brought the chaos to a halt. In an instant the drunken troublemaker lay face-up in the alley, moaning and clutching his head. Javert raised the cudgel, which he held in his left hand -- his right was still keeping a violent hold on his prisoner’s slender arm -- and this time connected solidly with the shoulder of the other seaman. “Get out of here,” he spat. The second man ran; the first stirred and continued groaning where he lay. 

Javert turned to the girl, who had stopped her struggles when the cudgel made its appearance and was now merely trembling under his grasp. “You will find nothing on the docks, besides trouble,” he told her. “Is that what you do for money here -- you go with men like that?” 

A scarlet blush heightened the girl’s painted color; that was all the answer Javert needed. He looked her over. Her bare legs were pitiful sticks. Around the stern grip of his fingers, her arm had gone white. Tomorrow, he knew, it would carry his mark. 

His thoughts returned to M. Madeleine and the warm arms that had gone around him at the window. He supposed that was the last time he would ever feel them. He hesitated one more moment. Then he thought, _Damn it all; and why should I not?_ He pulled out his wallet. The girl watched him fearfully.

“Perhaps you shall earn some of this, after all,” he told her. “Will this pay your price for the night? If you give me what I want, you will have your reward for it. And then you may go home to your mother.” 

Later -- as the girl's quick light footsteps clattered away down the alley -- Javert leaned up against a wall. He was bathed in a cold sweat, and his mind was in disarray. _By God, I am not myself anymore. What has become of me? The world is upside down. It is because of this business with the mayor. It is time I make an end of it._

He turned away from the docks and, striding with purpose, made his way toward the home of M. Madeleine.


	39. Chapter 39

_The knock at the door._

Madeleine was sitting before the fire when he heard it. Only a week before, this sound had made his heart leap with joy; tonight it filled him with dread. 

He had not thought the summons from Javert would come so soon. But perhaps it was better to make a quick end of things. He was ready. He had made his peace as best he could, and accepted his fate. He went to the door, and threw it open. 

It was indeed Javert. 

Madeleine had expected the inspector to arrive on his doorstep looking like an avenging angel, with a triumphant smile and a phalanx of his men behind him. Instead, Javert stood alone. His clothes were a little out of order. In his face Madeleine saw not triumph, but the haggard lines of a man who had long since passed the threshold of exhaustion. 

“So. You have come,“ Madeleine said quietly.

“As you knew I would,” the other answered.

For a moment Madeleine said nothing. Then he nodded. “Come in.” He stood aside as the inspector entered and removed his hat. 

He expected Javert to begin with the formal announcement of arrest: _In the name of the government of France, I am here to take into custody Jean Valjean, wanted for commission of the following crimes--_ However, Javert merely stood inside the door. Perhaps he meant to draw out his moment of revenge as long as possible. 

“Please, sit,” said Madeleine. He found it painful to bring forth the words. 

Javert had come to him again -- even though he was here to usher in ruin and degradation; and even though his presence meant the end of Madeleine's freedom and all his hopes. In spite of this, Madeleine felt a measure of simple happiness, because the face of the man before him was still a face he loved to look upon.

Silently, Javert took his place in the chair before the fire and laid aside his hat. Before, there had been two chairs; now there was only one. “Thank you for inviting me in,” he said gruffly.

“My housekeeper is away tonight. It will take me only a moment to get myself ready. I would like to write a word of farewell to her.” He had already left instructions at the bank: a large sum of money was to be given to Mere Plinet in the event her longtime employment came to a sudden end. 

Javert shook his head. “You misunderstand. I am not here to arrest you.” He added, half under his breath, “Though, the Eternal Father knows, I should.”

Madeleine’s heart ceased to beat. “Are you not?” he whispered,

“Not-- as yet,” the other answered.

It took Madeleine a moment to compose himself. He said at last, “Then you must tell me why you have come.” He was fearful of the answer, but he had to know. Though outwardly paralyzed, inwardly he was suffering a tumult of emotion. If Javert did not respond quickly, Madeleine feared he might be tempted to seize him violently and beat the answer out of him. 

Javert thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper which he passed to the mayor. _Marie Lefevre,_ it read in Javert's inelegant script. _Rue des Sabots nombre 26_. 

Madeleine looked up. “What is this?” he asked in bewilderment.

“A girl in need of work. Or so she claims,” Javert said with a little of his customary scorn. “It is most probably a lie, but there you have it -- I know you like to throw away your charity on the undeserving, and I suppose she is as undeserving as the next little vixen. I thought perhaps--” here he turned away to hide a flush of embarrassment -- “that you might find a place for her, in your factory.”

Madeleine gaped in astonishment. 

When, after a moment, he got his jaw properly closed again, he endeavored to respond with gravity. “And, tell me, Inspector: what makes you recommend this particular girl to my employ?”

“I met her walking the docks earlier tonight; we had some commerce between us. She will be good for beadwork," he added acidly. "I can assure you she has the most dexterous fingers.” 

If he had been shocked before, he was more so now. But Javert colored even more deeply. “No; it is not like that,” he muttered. “But I did give her ten francs for the information written on that paper, and if you cannot find a use for her I will have wasted my money.”

Madeleine set the scrap of paper on the mantel above the fireplace, securing it under one of his matched silver candlesticks. “It happens that I have need of another sorter in the women’s workroom,” he said thoughtfully. “I will speak to her. If she is willing, she may try her hand at it.” Then he added quietly, “You surprise me, Inspector.”

Javert shrugged awkwardly, got to his feet, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He began pacing around the room. 

Madeleine had no idea what to expect next. “I will draw up another chair by the fire. Perhaps-- I may get you some wine?”

Javert nodded with a distracted air. “All right.”

Madeleine returned with the wine. He brought back the second chair, which he had removed on a sad and lonely evening a few days before when he had given Javert up for lost. He made no sudden movements. Something about Javert reminded him of a shy woodland animal poised to bolt. The two men sat. Both stared into the warm, leaping flames and avoided each other's gaze. 

“I-- I have not resigned,” Javert blurted out. “I do not think that I will, in spite of-- of everything.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Madeleine swirled the wine in his glass, and waited. 

After a while Javert said, “I hear you mean to build a well near the Cambraille district.”

“Well, yes. Many of those families fetch their cooking water from the pond behind the Rue Mille-Fleurs. In summer the stagnant water makes a breeding ground for pestilence, and every year there are deaths from dysentery because of it -- mostly among the Cambraille children.”

“Might as well pour our taxes down a hole,” the Inspector observed darkly. “Well or no well, those people will continue to draw water from the pond -- simply because it will be the closer option. They are layabouts and idlers; they will always take the shortest route to their desires. If they were inclined toward work, they would not have ended in the tenements of the Cambraille district, in the first place.”

Madeleine was both irritated and delighted by this speech. Is this why Javert had come: simply to talk? He could imagine it: Javert and he before the fire after dinner every night, arguing civic matters, the news from Paris, the root cause of crime, the nature of God, the role of charity, and on and on. He would take the stubborn inspector apart point by point, until Javert was forced to bend and admit he had been entirely wrongheaded about everything. Or perhaps not; perhaps they would never see eye to eye on anything, and would have to simply settle their differences by wrestling each other to the floor-- 

He decided judiciously that tonight was not the night to start a fight. Instead he said with a bland smile, “On that point, we may have to disagree. But time will tell which of us is right.”

Javert grunted. For a little while, neither of them spoke. 

Then Javert shifted about in his chair. He said, “I did not come only to give you the girl’s address.”

“No. I thought not. What else is on your mind, then?”

Javert drained his wine and stood. He looked about the room; he appeared greatly agitated. For a moment his mouth worked but no sound issued forth. Finally he said, all in a rush:

“It is you. This business with you -- and Valjean -- it has thrown me into confusion.” He paced for a moment, then whirled to confront the mayor. “Listen: I knew a man once. His name was Valjean; he was a prisoner at Toulon, as degraded as an animal, but I believed him to be capable of obeying the law. I thought he was redeemable. But then I found I had misjudged him-- that he was only a thief, not even willing to serve his fair sentence.

"Later, I knew another man, Madeleine. And for a while I knew plain enough what _he_ was: a fraud, a con artist -- he was merely this same bastard Valjean, all dressed up in a fine suit and fooling the town, making some pretense of keeping order and benefitting society. But I learned to my shame that I was wrong once again, for M. Madeleine was a good man--” 

Here he broke off and, when he spoke again, it was in a whisper fraught with emotion. “No -- he was more than simply good, he was a man of such transcendance that all I wanted was to--” 

He stopped and looked away. There was a bookshelf beside him, and absently he pulled out a book, turned it in his hands, gripped it til his knuckles went white, thrust it back in its place. Then he spun to face the mayor again. “And then! I learned that everything was upside down. The mayor was indeed a hardened criminal! the worthless convict had made good in the world! the thief had been only a man protecting his family! And I, the righteous arm of the law -- I saw that I, too, was capable of losing my way and entertaining corruption.

"And so now-- I do not know what to think. I do not understand anything anymore.”

He stormed over to his chair and threw himself down in it again, leaning toward the mayor and speaking in an earnest rush. “How can these things be? You are a demon, or you are an angel; which? And what am I? Men do not change; this much I know. So how is all this possible? Teach me,” he finished pleadingly, his voice full of impassioned humility. “Explain it to me. A man - a beast - who served nineteen years and got out on a yellow ticket and then mocked the law again and broke parole - how can you have become a useful person? The idea of it makes me think I am going mad.”

Madeleine listened to all this, first with compassion, but then with growing anger. By the time Javert finished, he found himself longing to seize the man about the throat.

Exerting the greatest self-control, he tried to keep his answer calm -- although it must be said that he ground the words out between his teeth with a terrible softness. 

“I cannot explain anything to you, Inspector; anything but this: What I am is a man -- in fact, _all_ I am is a man. I am not a demon, and even less so an angel. But men do change. _I_ have changed into a better man than I was, with the help of God. It is even within the realm of imagination that _you_ might someday change for the better. For I believe that God can accomplish the seemingly impossible.” He glared at the inspector.

Javert shrank back a little in his chair and fell silent, evidently feeling the sting of his host's retort. After a moment he said uncertainly, “I am sorry-- I did not mean--” He rose stiffly. “My apologies, Monsieur le maire. It is late, and I should not have imposed on you at such an hour.” He took up his hat, and bowed. “Monsieur,” he said, and moved to show himself out. 

Madeleine was gripped by remorse. He caught Javert by the door. “Wait-- Javert! Wait! I am sorry; I did not mean to speak in that way. Please, do not go. What is it I can do for you? I am not angry. Please -- tell me.”

Javert stood with his eyes lowered. Finally he looked up and met the mayor’s gaze. “I had hoped we could… that we could talk. Only that -- as you had suggested, last week when you were going out my door. I thought that perhaps you would let me come sometimes, and sit here before the fire with you in the evening-- and that you could tell me-- that you could tell me what happened to you. How you became who you are; how you changed; and--” Here he struggled with the words, and something very like a sob escaped him. “--And did you not find it terribly hard?” He swallowed audibly and looked down, twisting his large hands together.

Madeleine felt a warm flush suffuse his skin. A lump rose in his throat. Quite unexpectedly, he found that his eyes had filled with tears. 

“Oh,” he said. “Oh-- my friend--” 

He would have said more, but for a moment he found himself incapable of speech. 

Finally he managed, “Yes. I-- I would like that very much.”

"You would-- truly?" Javert's face suddenly shone with a look of boyish hopefulness. It transformed him. Madeleine suddenly saw before him the much younger man he had first known long ago -- the young guard, serious and eager, newly arrived at Toulon. 

Madeleine smiled. “Is tomorrow night too soon?” 

They did not embrace -- but for a long wordless moment their eyes rested on each other. Then Javert blushed a little. He was the first to look away. 

“Tomorrow, then,” he mumbled awkwardly. 

He bowed again, and was gone. Madeleine stood at the door a moment longer. There was a singing joy in his chest. He felt that if he rose up on his toes, he might accidentally take flight.


	40. Chapter 40

“At the second inn it was the same as the first. ‘Go away, you dog!’ They had already heard about me, you see.”

Javert shifted in his chair before the mayor's fire. He furrowed his brow. “There was a bad case once, at a boarding-house in Avignon. A prisoner recently paroled was taken in by an elderly couple despite his yellow ticket. Three mornings later, man and wife were found dead in their beds with their throats cut. Several of the other rentiers were killed in the same manner, and all of them robbed, and the man gone. He killed twice more before he was caught." 

“So, you think the innkeepers were right to treat me as they did?” Madeleine fumed with indignation, but tried to hide it. This was not the response he had hoped for.

Javert answered in a low, hurt voice. “I do not like to say so. But -- surely you can see their side of it. Honest men have a right to decide who sleeps in their homes and, well... it was not _their_ fault you had earned yourself a yellow ticket. An innkeeper has a business to run, and must think about the safety of his guests.”

“Nineteen years I spent in prison!” Madeleine burst out. “For stealing a loaf of bread! Was that not enough punishment?”

It was Monday night. Javert had arrived at the door two hours before wearing a diffident expression. He was shy and reserved as he followed his host to the fireside. But his eyes still shone with a glimmer of the uncertain hopefulness that had burned in them the night before. 

Madeleine was nervous as well, but tried to make his guest welcome. The bottle of wine was nearly gone -- though neither man was a drinker, both partook so the other would feel free to do the same. As a result, their tongues were looser than usual. 

Madeleine had thought all day of how he would open Javert‘s mind. The inspector simply did not realize the cruelty of the laws he served. He would remedy this, taking Javert by the hand as one takes a child, and illuminating the truth for him. Then Javert would understand how a good man may become a thief; how prison turns inmates into miserable beasts and embittered jailbirds; how the yellow ticket means even a paroled man never knows justice. 

He especially looked forward to telling Javert about the Bishop and his life-changing revelation on the road out of Digne. He imagined Javert listening raptly, his eyes shining and his spirit captivated. Javert might even fall to his knees in prayer. He would see that Madeleine‘s way -- the way of a merciful God -- was the way all men should follow. 

But things were not going as he had expected. 

The inspector was looking away now, frowning; clearly he was holding back from saying what was on his mind. 

“What is it?” Madeleine demanded irritably.

“I-- do not wish to say,” Javert answered. Madeleine had noticed this about Javert: that far from being the deceitful traitor Madeleine had once imagined, he was in fact a painfully honest man. It seemed to physically pain him to hold back the truth or conceal his thoughts. He lacked any of the subtle weapons of diplomacy, and so he often chose silence over speech.

“Tell me. I want to hear your thoughts.” Though in truth, Madeleine was not so sure he did.

Javert hesitated. Finally he came out with it. “This is not the first time I have heard you say it this way -- “Alas; nineteen years for a loaf of bread!” But really, you must know that this is not the truth. You are taking liberties with the facts in order to exaggerate your grievance with the law.”

“All right then,” Madeleine said sourly. “Five years for a loaf of bread -- a mere five! There; does that please you better?”

Javert bit his lip and said, “Well… actually, as I see it, and as the law sees it, the bread was the least part of it. It was worth not more than fifteen sous; a pittance. But the window-pane, that would be twelve francs at least. Also, you known you ruined not just one loaf but all the baker’s wares, due to the glass shards and the blowing dust that would have come in from the road. Then, too, the baker would have sold little until his shop was repaired. I imagine many customers would meanwhile establish themselves with a different boulangerie, so the man’s business would suffer a lasting blow.” He continued doggedly with a look of embarrassment, “The theft of a loaf of bread was the most forgivable element of the matter. Perhaps that is why you speak of it, alone.”

Madeleine felt himself wrong-footed. He was flushed and angry but did not know what to say, so he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Javert muttered, “I am sorry. I did not wish to contradict you. It is only because you asked me.”

“No-- no.” The mayor offered up a silent prayer, asking God to keep him humble. “I-- I suppose you are correct. I had never thought of it that way.”

All in all, the evening seemed to have taken a wrong turn, and Madeleine did not see a way to right it. 

They were awkward together. Despite their past intimacies -- or perhaps because of them -- each was careful not to touch the other. As the hours passed, their conversation put them repeatedly at odds. Each man raised his hackles and then backed off politely, and a strained formality grew up between them. It seemed to the mayor that they were pulling apart rather than together. 

When the fire burned low, Javert got to his feet. “I thank you for your hospitality, once again,” he said politely. “It has been enlightening to hear your views.”

Madeleine accompanied him to the door. Javert bowed and put on his hat.

Madeleine felt a familiar desperation seize him. 

“Please,” he gasped. “Will you come back? Perhaps tomorrow?”

Javert's mask of polite reserve fell instantly away. “Oh -- will you have me?” he said chokingly. 

They settled it: Javert would return the following evening.

 _It will go better. I will see to it,_ Madeleine swore to himself as he latched the door.


	41. Chapter 41

“Check and mate.”

Madeleine groaned. “Again! I thought I had you on the run, that time.”

Javert smiled wolfishly. “You did - until that point in the middle-game, when you should have sacrificed your bishop and refused. I have learned you have a weakness for bishops; it is a flaw in your play. You never want to let them go.”

“My game is improving, though, I think. You have taught me a lot.”

Javert looked pleased. 

For three weeks now, Javert had again been a regular visitor at Madeleine’s home. A friendship had grown up between them. There was chess, and wine, and talk of work. They did argue a little over the small affairs of Montreuil-sur-Mer, but each had learned not to tread on the other’s opinions. Plans for the Cambraille well were going ahead as Madeleine desired, and if Javert rolled his eyes just a little when the subject was mentioned, Madeleine found he could live with that, and hold his tongue. 

“How is the Lefevre girl working out?” Javert asked. “You visited her home -- was there truly a sick mother, as she claimed?”

“Indeed. And the girl is doing a fine job at the factory.” He did not feel it strictly necessary to add that Mme. Lefevre’s sickness came largely from a bottle of eau-de-vie. “She sends her regards.”

“You did not tell her that it was I who--” He looked embarrassed. 

“And if I did?” Madeleine could not help teasing the inspector a little. Javert so hated the idea that public opinion would find him guilty of charity, or laxness in application of the law. Yet Madeleine knew, from other sources, that more than one young troublemaker had recently been let off with no more than a cuff across the ear, a lecture on the virtue of honest toil, and the threat that a second offense would meet with no leniency.

Javert cast such a baleful look at the mayor, that Madeleine found it necessary to quickly assert his innocence. “I told her nothing. But she is bright enough to realize who her benefactor truly was.” He was not sure if Javert’s ears went pink from pleasure or annoyance. 

“Monsieur le maire,” Javert said crisply. “The police must maintain authority. If it is spread about that pickpockets are rewarded with offers of employment by the kindly mayor, we will all have no end of trouble.”

“Must you--” Madeleine said suddenly in a low voice, “--must you always call me that?”

Instantly tension rose between them. Javert’s face closed up a little.

“And what would you have me call you?” he asked.

Madeleine regarded him silence. Finally the inspector looked away. “If I say that name, I only remind myself of my failure. That man should be in prison; yet I find I cannot send him there.”

In the past weeks they had spoken a lot of Toulon. They never spoke of the pain that had come between them -- Vovet, the flogging post, Valjean’s escape, Javert’s ostracism -- but they reminisced over trivial things, and delighted in their shared memories like two children sharing a secret. Javert, however, by some subterranean trick of the mind, managed to believe that the man across the chessboard from him had been transformed by alchemy, and was now Monsieur Madeleine alone and no other.

“Please,” said Madeleine. “Just once. You do not know how much I long to hear it from your lips.”

Javert closed his eyes. “Valjean,” he whispered. He felt a gentle touch, and opened his eyes to find the mayor’s hand cupping his cheek. 

“Can you not look at me while you say it? You know who I am. We have a history between us, you and I. I am the man you used to watch and think of, though I wore chains and a red smock. You are the man who meant everything to me, back then. And look at us. Here we are, together.”

Javert fell silent. He would like to keep Madeleine as Madeleine, and not think about that other man. But the mayor continued to look at him in an intent way that was almost desperate. Javert recognized what was being asked of him. To face the past would take honesty and courage. He had always prided himself on having both. 

With great effort, he fixed his gaze on the mayor’s face. “Valjean,” he said again. 

It was not easy to produce the word. He found himself a little tremulous in the knees and more than a little breathless. But the look on the other man’s face made it worth it. And so Javert smiled, a rare event which gave his generally impassive face the look of a rising sun emerging from behind blue clouds at dawn. 

He put his hand over the mayor's, and they wove their fingers together. 

“Jean Valjean," he said hoarsely. This time it came easier. "Do you know, I still can scarcely believe it. After all these years: it is you.”


	42. Chapter 42

Javert and Valjean continued to gaze at each other. Valjean leaned in and covered Javert's lips with his own. His tongue went out, and he thrilled to feel the other man’s mouth come open at his touch. Their tongues found each other. Then Valjean pushed his in deeply, and Javert, yielding utterly, moaned down low in his throat and pressed himself forward. Valjean took the inspector’s face between his two hands. There was strength in his touch, and Javert closed his eyes and sank into it. 

Only the need for breath brought the kiss to an end. When they broke apart, Javert's gaze was unfocused like a man under the influence of laudanum. Valjean, meanwhile, grinned from ear to ear. 

“I have missed you,” he said. “Ever since you first entered my thoughts at Toulon. Later, I was so sure you had changed into a different man. We have both been wrong about each other, for so long.”

“Jean Valjean,” Javert repeated. He could not seem to stop saying it. He shook his head as if in disbelief, then kissed the crook of Valjean’s neck and buried his face in its warmth. He thought he could smell the old smells of the Toulon drydock -- tar and hemp and timber, mingling with salt air and sweat. Lightly he bit at Valjean’s throat. 

Then he pulled away so he could look into the other man's face. “This is so good, I am afraid it may not last.” Doubtfully he added, “We should enjoy it quickly, in case something else happens. May I-- Shall we-- “ He looked toward the bedroom.

A shade of doubt now clouded Valjean's face as well. His expression had become troubled. He took Javert’s hands in his. “Javert," he said. He hesitated. "There is something that must be said." He was gripping the other man's hands too tightly. "Before we go further, I need to know-- Will you tell me--" He broke off. Then he said, "Will you trust me in something? It is important.”

He spoke with such gravity that Javert felt a cold foreboding. “Of course,” he said slowly. 

The mayor reached for the chess pieces and began setting them up. “I propose,” he said, “one last game tonight." His tone was lighter now, almost playful. "And here are the stakes: the winner gets to make a request of the loser, and the loser will comply.”

“ _Any_ request?” Javert asked in astonishment. “That is a fool’s bargain!”

“Not if we trust each other. I trust you, and I am willing. Are you?”

“Need I remind you that you have never won a game against me?” Javert let his eyes linger on the mayor’s hands. _Any request._ It occurred to him there were a lot of things he might enjoy asking for. He licked his lips. He wondered if Valjean's mind was entertaining thoughts similar to his own. 

There was almost nothing Valjean could ask for, that he would be unwilling to give. 

“The wager is struck,” he said solemnly. 

“I have been learning quite a lot from you,” Valjean said warningly as both men set up for the game. “Do not go easy on me, or you may regret it.”

Javert snorted. “Send your bishops into the fray or you will have no hope.”

They both fell silent as play began. Valjean was white. He advanced his king pawn. 

At mid-game they were even in pieces won, but Javert held the slightly dominant position. The opposing armies battered at each other. Javert pressed his advantage and, as the game wore on, he widened his narrow margin. He was up by a knight now, and had Valjean on the run. “Check.”

With a careless, offhand glance, Valjean moved a bishop to defend his king. “It is a funny thing about you,” he said musingly. “You are very honest -- some would say, ’honest to a fault.’”

“Honesty cannot be a fault,” Javert replied as he made his move.

“No; it is a noble characteristic in a man -- though sometimes a liability, I think, in a police officer. I imagine you would have a hard time if you ever had to conceal the truth about yourself in the line of duty. Suppose someday you are asked to go behind enemy lines. Say there is an uprising against the king, and your commander orders you to spy on the rebels. I am afraid that you would not last twenty minutes.”

Javert watched the mayor move his queen into a strategic position. “Should I be flattered or insulted?” he said. “It is no use, Valjean -- you are trying to distract me, but you will not pin my rook so easily.” He moved to avoid the trap.

“Some people are good at subterfuge,“ Valjean went on. “Myself, for example. It is not a virtue, and it is nothing I can be proud of, but I have depended on this skill for nine years now. I can conceal the truth about myself with ease. I have fooled everyone.” He made his move. Then he looked up at Javert. “It is different with you,” he said quietly.

Javert jerked his head up from the board at the sudden change in the mayor’s voice. "What do you mean?" 

“You cannot dissemble well, Javert.” Valjean's voice had dropped; there was a savage edge to it. “Anyone who comes to know you well, can see right through you.”

Javert stared back at him, suddenly pale. 

“Be careful,” Valjean reminded him. _“The winner may make any request; the loser must comply.”_

The inspector stared at his foe, then nodded. He set his hand on his queen and contemplated the board. Beads of sweat had suddenly sprung out on his brow. He hesitated. Then he moved his hand to his knight.

It was a spectacular mistake. Valjean smiled the bloodless smile of a victor. Four moves later, he pronounced the sentence. “Check. And mate.” 

“Claim your prize,” Javert answered, lifting his chin. "I am ready."

“Very well," said Valjean. "My request is this: Tell me how I came to be chained to the flogging post that morning -- and why you beat me. _And this time"_ \-- here he reached out and seized Javert’s wrist, pressing hard enough to feel the other man's bones grind together -- _“let us have the truth.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I had great fun rewriting this. Not that I will ever be done. Comments are always welcome, especially constructive criticism and questions.


End file.
